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701 ZS' 


AGUECHEEK. 


I  am  old, 
And  mj  infirmities  have  cliained  me  here 
To  mffer  and  to  vex  my  weary  soul 
With  the  vain  hope  of  cure.    •    •    • 
Yet  my  captivity  U  not  so  joyless 
As  you  would  think,  my  masters.    Here  I  sit 
And  look  upon  this  eager,  anxious  world, — 
Not  with  the  eyes  of  sour  misanthropy. 
Nor  envious  of  its  pleasures,  —  but  content, — 
Yea,  blessedly  content,  'mid  all  my  pains, 
That  I  no  more  may  mingle  with  its  brawlingi. 

ROWLET. 


BOSTON: 
SHEPARD,    CLARK,    AND    BROWN. 


M  D  CCC  LIX. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congreag,  in  the  year  1860,  by 

SHEPARD,  CLARK,  AND  BROWN, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Bistrict  Court  of  the  District  of  Masaachuaetta. 


■TIKEOfTPID    AT    TBI 
BOSTON    STERSOTTPS     FOVNSBT. 


PREFACE. 


The  principal  part  of  the  sketches  and  es- 
says of  which  this  volume  is  composed,  was 
first  given  to  the  public  in  the  columns  of 
the  Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  under  the 
signdture  of  Aguecheek.  The  sketches  of  for- 
eign travel  have  been  mostly  rewritten,  and 
several  of  them  are  entirely  new.  In  them 
the  author  has  endeavoured  to  avoid  the  de- 
tails which  he  always  found  tiresome  in  the 
works  of  many  foreign  tourists,  and  to  con- 
fine himself  to  his  individual  experience.  For, 
if  any  one  wishes  to  read  the  history  and 
description  of  a  European  city,  or  the  public 
edifices  thereof,  are  not  all  these  things  writ- 
ten in  the  guide-books  of  the  infallible  Mur- 
ray ?  And  who  would  wish  to  steal  the  well- 
earned  laurels  of  that  inseparable  companion 

(3) 


4  PREFACE. 

of  the  European  traveller,  when  his  theft 
could  not  possibly  be  concealed  from  any 
discerning  eye  ? 

There  are,  in  several  of  the  essays,  certain 
local  allusions,  which  the  author  thinks  will 
be  understood  by  a  sufficiently  large  propor- 
tion of  his  readers  to  justify  their  retention. 

Boston,  June  1,  1869. 


CONTENTS. 


SKETCHES  OF  FOREIGN  TRAVEL. 

PAOI 

A  Passage  across  the  Atlantic 9 

London 23 

Antwtkp  and  Sbussels,     .     .  ■ 35 

Genoa  and  Florence 45 

Ancient  Rome, 58 

modbbn  bome 66 

Rome  to  Marseilles, 77 

Marseilles,  Lyons,  and  Aix  in  Satot, 89 

Aix  to  Paris, 100 

Paris, 113 

Paris, 125 

Napoleon  the  Third, 135 

The  Philosophy  op  Foreign  Travel, 151 

PaSIS  to  BotTLOONE,   ,,,...,.,,,.,.  163 
London ,,,,., 176 


CONTENTS. 


E  SS  A  Y  S. 

PAM 

Street  Life 189 

Hab,d  up  in  Pabu* 200 

The  Old  Corneb, 212 

Sacbed  to  the  Memoet  of  Theatre  Alley, 22.3 

The  Old  Cathedral, 234 

The  Philosophy  of  Suffebino 247 

Boyhood  and  Boys, 268 

Girlhood  and  Gibls .  270 

Shakespeabe  and  his  Commentators 282 

Memorials  of  Mrs.  Grundy, 296 

The  Philosophy  of  Life 306 

Behind  the  Scenes 315 

The  Philosophy  of  Cant, 326 


SKETCHES   OF  FOREIGN  TRAVEL. 


A  PASSAGE   ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC. 

"To  an  American  visiting  Europe  for  the  first  time," 
saith  Geoffrey  Crayon,  "  the  long  voyage  which  he  has  to 
make  is  an  excellent  preparative."  To  the  greater  propor- 
tion of  those  who  revisit  the  old  world,  the  voyage  is  only 
an  interval  of  ennui  and  impatience.  Not  such  is  it  to  the 
writer  of  this  sentence.  For  him  the  sea  has  charms  which 
age  cannot  wither,  nor  head  winds  abate.  For  him  the 
voyage  is  a  retreat  from  the  cares  of  business,  a  rest  from 
the  pursuit  of  wealth,  and  a  prolonged  reminiscence  of  his 
youthful  days,  when  he  first  trod  the  same  restless  pathway, 
and  the  glories  of  England  and  the  Continent  rose  up 
resplendent  before  him,  very  much  as  the  gorgeous  city  in 
the  clouds  looms  up  before  the  young  gentleman  in  one  of 
the  late  lamented  Mr.  Cole's  pictures.  For  it  is  a  satisfac- 
tion to  him  to  remember  that  such  things  were,  —  even 
though  the  performances  of  life  have  not  by  any  means 
equalled  the  promises  of  the  programme  of  youth, — 
though  age  and  the  cares  of  an  increasing  family  have 
stifled  poetry,  and  the  genius  of  Rom^tnce  has  long  since 
taken  his  hat. 

The  recollections  of  youthful  Mediterranean  voyages  are 
a  mine  of  wealth  to  an  old  man.  They  have  transformed 
ancient  history  into  a  majestic  reality  for  him,  and  the 
pages  of  his  dog's-eared  Lempriere  become  instinct  with 

(9) 


10  AGUECHEEK. 

life  as  he  recalls  those  halcyon  days  when  he  reclined  on 
deck  beneath  an  awning,  and  gazed  on  Crete  and  Lesbos, 
and  the  mountains  that  look  on  Marathon.  Neither  age 
nor  misfortune  can  ever  rob  him  of  the  joy  he  feels  when 
he  looks  back  to  the  cloudless  afternoon  when  he  passed 
from  the  stormy  Atlantic  to  that  blue  inland'  sea,  —  when 
he  saw  where  Africa  has  so  long  striven  to  shake  hands 
with  Europe,  —  and  thrilled  at  the  thought  that  the  sea 
then  glowing  with  the  hues  of  sunset  was  once  ploughed  by 
the  invincible  galleys  of  the  Caesars,  and  dashed  its  angry 
surges  over  the  shipwrecked  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles. 

It  is  rather  a  pleasant  thing  to  report  one's  self  on  board 
a  fine  packet  ship  on  a  bright  morning  in  May  —  the  old 
portmanteau  packed  again,  and  thoughts  turned  seaward. 
There  is  a  kind  of  inspiration  in  the  song  of  the  sailors  at 
the  windlass,  (that  is,  as  many  of  them  as  are  able  to 
maintain  a  perpendicular  position  at  that  early  period  of 
the  voyage ;)  the  very  clanking  of  the  anchor  chains  seems 
to  speak  of  speedy  liberation,  and  the  ship  sways  about  as 
if  yearning  for  the  freedom  of  the  open  sea.  At  last  the 
anchor  is  up,  and  the  ship  swings  around,  and  soon  is  glid- 
ing down  the  channel ;  and  slowly  the  new  gasometer,  and 
Bunker  Hill  Monument,  and  the  old  gasometer  (with  the 
dome)  on  Beacon  Hill,  begin  to  diminish  in  size.  (I  might 
introduce  a  fine  misquotation  here  about  growing  "  small  by 
degrees,  and  beautifully  less,"  but  that  I  don't  like  novelties 
in  a  correspondence  like  this.)  The  embankments  of  Fort 
Warren  seem  brighter  and  more  verdurous  than  ever,  and 
the  dew-drops  glitter  in  the  sunbeams,  as  dear  Nellie's  tears 
did,  when  she  said  good-by,  that  very  morning.  Then,  as 
we  get  into  the  bay,  the  tocsin  calls  to  lunch  —  and  the 
appetite  for  lobsters,  sardines,  ale,  and  olives  makes  ns  all 
forget  how  much  we  fear  lest  business  of  immediate  im- 
portance may  prevent  an  early  return  to  the  festive  ma- 


A   PASSAGE   ACROSS   THE   ATLANTIC.  11 

hogany.  And  shortly  after,  the  pilot  takes  his  leave,  and 
■with  him  the  small  knot  of  friends,  who  have  gone  as  far 
as  friendship,  circumstances,  and  the  tide  will  allow.  And 
so  the  voyage  commences  —  the  captain  takes  command  — 
and  all  feel  that  the  jib-boom  points  towards  Motherland, 
and  begin  to  calculate  the  distance,  and  anticipate  the  time 
when  the  ship  shall  be  boarded  by  a  blue-coated  beef-eater, 
who  will  take  her  safely  "  round  'Oly'ead,  and  dock  'er." 
The  day  wears  away,  and  the  sunset  finds  the  passengers 
well  acquainted,  and  a  healthy  family  feeling  growing  up 
among  them.  The  next  morning  we  greet  the  sea  and 
skies,  but  not  our  mother  earth.  The  breeze  is  light  —  the 
weather  is  fine  —  so  that  the  breakfast  is  discussed  before  a 
full  bench.  Every  body  feels  well,  but  sleepy,  and  the  day 
is  spent  in  conversation  and  enjoyment  of  the  novelty  of 
life  at  sea.  The  gentle  heaving  of  the  ocean  is  rather 
agreeable  than  otherwise,  and  the  young  ladies  promenade 
the  deck,  and  flatter  themselves  that  they  have  (if  I 
might  use  such  an  expression)  their  sea  legs  on.  But  the 
next  day  the  gentle  heaving  has  become  a  heavy  swell,  — 
locomotion  is  attended  with  great  difficulties,  —  the  process 
of  dressing  is  a  severe  practical  joke,  —  and  the  timorous 
approach  to  the  breakfast  table  and  precipitous  retreat  from 
it,  are  very  interesting  studies  to  a  disinterested  spectator. 
The  dining  saloon  is  thinly  populated  when  the  bell  rings 
—  the  gentlemen  preferring  to  lounge  about  on  deck  —  they 
have  slight  headaches  —  not  seasick  —  of  course  not  —  the 
gentleman  who  had  taken  eight  sherry  cobblers  was  not 
intoxicated  at  all  —  it  was  a  glass  of  lemonade,  that  he  took 
afterwards,  that  disagreed  with  him  and  made  his  footing 
rather  unsteady.  But  Neptune  is  inexorable,  and  exacts 
his  tribute,  and  the  payers  show  their  receipts  in  pale 
faces  and  dull  eyes,  whether  they  acknowledge  it  or  no  • 
and  many  a  poor  victim  curses  the  pernicious  hour  that  ever 


12  IGUECHEEK. 

saw  him  shipped,  and  comes  to  the  Irishman's  conclusion 
that  the  pleasantest  part  of  going  away  from  home  is  the 
getting  back  again. 

But  a  few  days  suffice  to  set  all  minds  and  stomachs  at 
rest,  and  we  settle  down  into  the  ordinary  routine  of  life  at 
sea.  The  days  glide  by  rapidly,  as  Shakspeare  says,  "  with 
books,  and  work,  and  healthful  play,"  and  as  we  take  a 
retrospective  view  of  the  passage,  it  seems  to  be  a  maze  of 
books,  backgammon,  bad  jokes,  cigars,  crochet,  cribbage,  and 
conversation.  CJontentment  obtains  absolute  sway,  which 
even  ten  days  of  head  winds  and  calms  cannot  shake  off. 
Perhaps  this  is  owing  in  a  great  measure  to  the  good  tem- 
per and  gentlemanly  bearing  of  the  captain,  who  never 
yielded  to  the  temptation,  before  which  so  many  intrepid 
mariners  have  fallen,  to  speak  in  disrespectful  and  condem- 
natory terms  of  the  weather.  How  varied  must  be  the 
qualities  which  make  a  good  commander  of  a  packet  ship ; 
what  a  model  of  patience  he  must  be  —  patience  not  only 
with  the  winds,  but  also  with  variable  elements  of  humanity 
which  surround  him.  He  must  have  a  good  word  for  every 
body  and  a  smiling  face,  although  he  knows  that  the  ship 
will  not  head  her  course  by  four  points  of  the  compass  on 
either  tack ;  and  must  put  aside  with  a  jest  the  unconscious 
professional  gentleman  whose  hat  intervenes  between  his 
sextant  and  the  horizon.  In  short,  he  must  possess  in  an 
eminent  degree  what  Virgil  calls  the  suaviter  in  what's-his- 
name  with  the  fortiter  in  what-d'ye-call-iU  I  am  much 
disposed  to  think  that  had  Job  been  a  sea  captain  with 
a  protracted  head  wind,  the  land  of  Uz  would  not  have 
attained  celebrity  as  the  abode  of  the  most  patient  of 
men. 

An  eminent  Boston  divine,  not  long  since  deceased,  who 
M'as  noted  alike  for  his  Johnsonian  style  and  his  very  un- 
Johnsonian  meekness  of  manner,  once  said  to  a  sea  captain, 


A   PASSAGE   ACROSS  THE    ATLANTIC.  18 

"  I  have,  sir,  in  the  course  of  my  professional  career,  en- 
countered many  gentlemen  of  your  calling ;  but  I  really 
must  say  that  I  have  never  been  powerfully  impressed  in  a 
moral  way  by  them,  for  their  conversation  abounded  in 
expressions  savouring  more  of  strength  than  of  righteous- 
ness ;  indeed,  but  few  of  them  seemed  capable  of  enun- 
ciating the  simplest  sentence  without  prefacing  it  with  a 
profane  allusion  to  the  possible  ultimate  fate  of  their  visual 
organs,  which  I  will  not  shock  your  fastidiousness  by  re- 
peating." The  profanity  of  seafaring  men  has  always  been 
remarked  ;  it  has  been  a  staple  article  for  the  lamentations 
of  the  moralist  and  the  jests  of  the  immoralist ;  but  I  must 
say  that  I  am  not  greatly  surprised  at  its  prevalence,  for 
when  I  have  seen  a  thunder  squall  strike  a  ship  at  sea,  and 
every  effort  was  making  to  save  the  rent  canvas,  it  has 
seemed  to  me  as  if  those  whose  dealings  were  with  the  ele- 
ments actually  needed  a  stronger  vocabulary  than  is  re- 
quired for  less  sublime  transactions.  To  speak  in  ordinary 
terms  on  such  occasions  would  be  as  absurd  as  the  Cockney's 
application  of  the  epithets  "  clever  "  and  "  neat "  to  Niagara. 
I  am  not  attempting  to  palliate  every-day.  profanity,  for  I 
was  brought  up  in  the  abhorrence  of  it,  having  been  taken 
at  an  early  age  from  the  care  of  the  lady  "  who  ran  to  catch 
me  when  I  fell,  and  kissed  the  place  to  make  it  well,"  and 
placed  in  the  country  under  the  superintendence  of  a  maiden 
aunt,  who  was  very  moral  indeed,  and  who  instilled  her 
principles  into  my  young  heart  with  wonderful  eloquence 
and  power.  "Andrew,"  she  used  to  say  to  me,  "you 
mustn't  laugh  in  meetin' ;  I've  no  doubt  that  the  man  who  was 
hung  last  week  (for  this  was  in  those  unenlightened  days 
when  the  punishment  of  crime  was  deemed  a  duty,  and  not 
a  sin)  began  his  wicked  course  by  laughing  in  meetin'; 
and  just  think,  if  you  were  to  commit  a  murder  —  for  those 
who  murder  will  steal  —  and  those  who  steal  will  swear 
2 


14  AOUECHEEK. 

and  He  —  and  those  who  swear  and  He  wUl  drink  rum  — 
and  then  if  they  don't  stop  in  their  sinful  ways,  they  get  so 
bad  that  they  will  smoke  cigars  and  break  the  Sabbath ; 
and  you  know  what  becomes  of  'em  then." 

The  ordinary  routine  of  life  at  sea,  which  is  so  irksome 
to  most  people,  has  a  wonderful  charm  for  me.  There  is 
something  about  a  well-manned  ship  that  commands  my 
deepest  enthusiasm.  Each  day  is  filled  with  a  quiet  and 
satisfactory  kind  of  enjoyment.  From  that  early  hour  of 
the  morning  when  the  captain  turns  out  to  see  what  is  the 
prospect  of  the  day,  and  to  drink  a  mug  of  boiling  coffee  as 
strong  as  aquafortis,  and  as  black  as  the  newly-opened  fluid 
Day  &  Martin,  from  No.  97,  High  Holborn,  to  that  quiet 
time  in  the  evening  when  that  responsible  functionary  goes 
below  and  turns  in,  with  a  sententious  instruction  to  the 
officer  of  the  watch  to  "  wake  him  at  twelve,  if  there's  any 
change  in  the  weather,"  there  is  no  moment  that  hangs 
heavy  on  my  hands.  I  love  the  regular  striking  of  the 
bells,  reminding  me  every  half  hour  how  rapidly  time  and 
I  are  getting  on.  The  regularity  with  which  every  thing 
goes  on,  from  the  early  washing  of  the  decks  to  the  sweep- 
ing of  the  same  at  four  bells  in  the  evening,  makes  me  think 
of  those  ancieijt  monasteries  in  the  south  of  Europe,  where 
the  unvarying  round  of  duties  creates  a  paradise  which 
those  who  are  subject  to  the  unexpected  fluctuations  of 
common  life  might  be  pardoned  for  coveting.  If  the  rude 
voices  that  swell  the  boisterous  chorus  which  hoists  the 
tugging  studding-sail  up  by  three-feet  pulls,  only  imper- 
fectly remind  one  of  the  sounds  he  hears  when  the  full 
choir  of  the  monastery  makes  the  grim  arches  of  the  chapel 
vibrate  with  the  solemn  tones  of  the  Gregorian  chant,  cer- 
tainly the  unbroken  calmness  of  the  morning  watch  may 
well  be  allowed  to  symbolize  the  rapt  meditation  and  un- 
spoken devotion  which  finds  its  home  within  the  "  studious 


A   PASSAGE   ACROSS   THE   ATLANTIC.  15 

cloister's  pale  ; "  and  I  may  be  pardoned  for  comparing  the 
close  attention  of  the  captain  and  his  mates  in  getting  the 
sun's  altitude  and  working  out  the  ship's  position  to  the 
"  examination  of  conscience  "  among  the  devout  dwellers  in 
the  convent,  and  the  working  out  of  the  spiritual  reckoning 
which  shows  them  how  much  they  have  varied  from  the 
course  laid  down  on  the  divine  chart,  and  how  far  they  are 
from  the  wished-for  port  of  perfection. 

I  have  a  profound  respect  for  the  sea  as  a  moral  teacher. 
No  man  can  be  tossed  about  upon  it  without  feeling  his 
impotence  and  insignificance,  and  having  his  heart  opened 
to  the  companions  of  his  danger  as  it  has  never  been 
opened  before.  The  sea  brings  out  the  real  character  of 
every  man ;  and  those  who  journey  over  its  "  deep  invisible 
paths "  find  themselves  intrusting  their  most  sacred  confi- 
dences to  the  keeping  of  comparative  strangers.  The  con- 
ventionalities of  society  cannot  thrive  in  a  salt  atmosphere ; 
and  you  shall  be  delighted  to  see  how  frank  and  agreeable 
the  "  world's  people  "  can  be  when  they  are  caught  where 
the  laws  of  fashion  are  silent,  and  what  a  wholesome  neg- 
lect of  personal  appearances  prevails  among  them  when 
that  sternest  of  democrats,  Neptune,  has  placed  them  where 
they  feel  that  it  would  be  folly  to  try  to  produce  an  impres- 
sion. The  gentleman  of  the  prize  ring,  whom  Dickens 
introduces  looking  with  admiration  at  the  stately  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  there  was  a  way  within  the 
resources  of  science  of  "  doubling-up  "  that  incarnation  of 
dignity ;  but,  for  the  accomplishment  of  such  an  end,  one 
good,  pitching,  head-sea  would  be  far  more  effectual  than 
all  the  resources  of  the  "  manly  art."  The  most  unbending 
assumption  could  not  survive  that  dreadful  sinking  of  the 
stomach,  that  convulsive  clutch  at  the  nearest  object  for 
support,  and  the  faint,  gurgling  cry  of  " stewWd"  which  an- 
nounces that  the  victim  has  found  his  natural  level.    A 


16  AGUECHEEK. 

thorough  tiovitiate  of  seasickness  is  as  indispensable,  in  my 
opinion,  to  the  formation  of  true  manly  character,  as  the 
measles  to  a  well-regulated  childhood.  Mentally  as  well  as 
corporeally,  seasickness  is  a  wonderful  renovator.  We  are 
such  victims  of  habit,  so  prone  to  run  in  a  groove,  (most  of 
us  in  a  groove  that  may  well  be  called  a  "  vicious  circle,") 
that  we  need  to  be  thoroughly  shaken  up,  and  made  to  take 
a  new  view  of  the  rationale  of  our  way  of  life.  I  do  not 
believe  that  any  man  ever  celebrated  his  recovery  from 
that  marine  malady  by  eating  the  pickles  and  biscuit  which 
always  taste  so  good  on  such  an  occasion,  without  having 
acquired  a  new  set  of  ideas,  and  being  made  generally  wiser 
and  better  by  his  severe  experience.  I  meet  many  un- 
amiable  persons  "  whene'er  I  take  my  walks  abroad,"  who 
only  need  two  days  of  seasickness  to  convert  them  into 
positive  ornaments  to  society. 

But,  pardon  me ;  all  this  has  little  to  do  with  the  voyage 
to  Liverpool.  The  days  follow  each  other  rapidly,  and  it 
begins  to  seem  as  if  the  voyage  would  stretch  out  to  the 
crack  of  doom,  for  t'lie  head  wind  stands  by  us  with  the 
constancy  of  a  sheriff,  and  when  that  lacks  power  to  retard 
us  we  have  a  calm.  But  the  weather  is  beautiful,  and  all 
the  time  is  spent  in  the  open  air.  Nut  brown  maids  work 
worsted  and  crochet  on  the  cooler  side  of  the  deck,  and 
gentlemen  in  rusty  suits,  with  untrimmed  beards,  wearing 
the  "  shadowy  livery  of  the  burning  sun,"  talk  of  the  pros- 
pects of  a  fair  wind  or  read  innumerous  novels.  The  even- 
ings are  spent  in  gazing  at  a  cloudless  sky,  and  promenading 
in  the  moonshine.  Music  lends  its  aid  and  banishes  impa- 
tience ;  my  young  co-voyagers  seem  not  to  have  forgotten 
"  Sweet  Home,"  and  the  "  Old  Folks  at  Home  "  would  be 
very  much  gratified  to  know  how  green  their  memory  is 
kept. 

At  length  we  all  begin  to  grow  tired  of  fair  weather. 


A   PASSAGE   ACROSS   THE    ATLANTIC.  17 

The  cloudless  sky,  the  gorgeous  sunrises  and  sunsets,  and 
the  bright  blue  sea,  with  its  lazily  spouting  whales  and  its 
lively  porpoises  playing  around  our  bows, — grow  positively 
distasteful  to  us ;  and  we  begin  to  think  that  any  change 
would  be  an  agreeable  one.  "We  do  not  have  to  wait 
many  days  before  we  are  awaked  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, by  the  throwing  down  of  heavy  cordage  on  deck,  and 
the  shouts  of  the  sailors,  and  are  soon  aware  that  we  are 
subject  to  an  unusual  motion  —  as  if  the  ship  were  being 
propelled  by  a  strong  force  over  a  corduroy  road  constructed 
on  an  enormous  scale.  Garments,  which  yesterday  were 
content  to  hang  in  an  orderly  manner  against  the  partitions 
of  one's  state-ro©m,  now  obstinately  persist  in  hanging  at  all 
sorts  of  peculiar  and  disgraceful  angles.  Hat  boxes,  trunks, 
and  the  other  movables  of  the  voyager  manifest  great  hilar- 
ity at  the  change  in  the  weather,  and  dance  about  the  floor 
in  a  manner  that  must  satisfy  the  most  fastidious  beholder. 
Every  timber  in  the  ship  groans  as  if  in  pain.  The  omni- 
present steward  rushes  about,  closing  up  sky-lights  and 
dead  lights,  and  "  chocking  "  his  rattling  crockery  and  glass- 
ware. On  deck  the  change  from  the  even  keel  and  the 
clear  sunlight  of  the  day  before  is  still  more  wonderful. 
The  colour  of  the  sky  reminds  you  of  the  leaden  lining  of  a 
tea-chest ;  that  of  the  sea,  of  the  dingy  green  paper  which 
covers  the  same.  The  sails,  which  so  many  days  of  sun- 
shine have  bleached  to  a  dazzling  whiteness,  are  now  all 
furled,  except  those  which  are  necessary  to  keep  some  little 
headway  on  the  ship.  The  captain  has  adorned  his  manly 
frame  with  a  suit  of  India  rubber,  which  certainly  could  not 
have  been  selected  for  its  gracefulness,  and  has  overshad- 
owed his  honest  face  with  a  sou'wester  of  stupendous  pro- 
portions. With  the  exception  of  occasional  visits  to  the 
sinking  barometer,  he  spends  his  weary  day  on  the  wet 
deck,  and  tries  to  read  the  future  in  the  blackening  waves 
2* 


18  AGUECHEEK. 

and  stonny  sky.  The  wheel,  which  heretofore  has  required 
but  one  man,  now  taxes  the  strength  of  two  of  the  stoutest 
of  our  crew ;  —  so  hard  is  it  to  keep  our  bashful  ship  head- 
ing up  to  that  rude  sea,  and  to  "  ease  her  when  she  pitches." 
The  breakfast  suffers  sadly  from  neglect,  for  every  one  is 
engrossed  with  the  care  of  the  weather.  At  noon  there  is 
a  lull  for  half  an  hour. or  so,  and,  in  spite  of  the  threats  of 
the  remorseless  barometer,  some  of  our  company  try  to  look 
for  an  amelioration  in  the  meteorological  line.  But  their 
hopes  are  crushed  when  they  find  that  the  wind  has  shifted 
one  or  two  points,  and  has  set  in  to  blow  more  violently 
than  before.  The  sea,  too,  begins  to  behave  in  a  most  ca- 
pricious and  disagreeable  style.  When  the  ship  has,  with  a 
great  deal  of  straining  and  cracking,  ridden  safely  over  two 
mighty  ridges  of  water,  and  seems  to  be  easily  settling 
down  into  a  black  valley  between  two  foam-capped  hills, 
there  comes  a  sudden  shock,  as  if  she  had  met  the  Palisades 
of  the  Hudson  in  her  path,  —  a  crackling,  grating  sound, 
like  that  of  a  huge  nutmeg-grater  operating  on  a  coral  reef, 
a  crash  like  the  combined  force  of  all  the  battering-rams  of 
Titus  Flavins  Vespasianus  on  one  of  the  gates  of  Jerusalem, 
—  and  a  hundred  tons  of  angry  water  roll  aft  against  the 
cabin  doors,  in  a  manner  not  at  all  agreeable  to  weak  nerves. 
For  a  moment  the  ship  seems  to  stand  perfectly  still,  as  if 
deliberating  whether  to  go  on  or  turn  back  ;  then,  realizing 
that  the  ship  that  deliberates  in  such  a  time  is  lost,  she  rises 
gracefully  over  a  huge  pile  of  water  which  was  threatening 
to  submerge  her. 

The  afternoon  wears  away  slowly  with  the  passen- 
gers. They  say  but  little  to  one  another,  but  look 
about  them  from  the  security  of  the  wheel-house  as  if  they 
were  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  the  inestimable  value  of 
strong  cordage.  As  twilight  approaches,  and  all  hands 
are  just  engaged  in  taking  supper,  after  having  "  mended 


A   PASSAGE  ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC.  19 

tlie  reefs,"  the  ship  meets  a  staggering  sea,  which  seems  to 
start  every  timber  in  her  firm-set  frame,  and  our  main-top- 
gallant-mast breaks  off  like  a  stick  of  candy.  Such  things 
generally  happen  just  at  night,  the  sailors  say,  when  the 
difficulties  of  clearing  away  the  broken  rigging  are  increased 
by  the  darkness.  Straightway  the  captain's  big,  manly 
voice  is  heard  above  the  war-whoop  of  the  gale,  ringing  out 
as  Signor  Badiali's  was  wont  to  in  the  third  act  of  Ernani. 
The  wind  seems  to  pin  the  men  to  the  ratlines  as  they 
clamber  up  ;  but  all  the  difficulties  are  overcome  at  length ; 
the  broken  mast  is  lowered  down,  and  snugly  stowed  away  ; 
and  before  nine  o'clock  all  is  quiet,  except  the  howling 
wind,  which  seems  to  have  determined  to  make  a  night  of 
it.  And  such  a  night !  It  is  one  of  those  times  that  make 
one  want  one's  mother.  There  is  little  sleeping  done  ex- 
cept among  the  "  watch  below  "  in  the  forecastle,  who  snore 
away  their  four  hours  as  if  they  appreciated  the  reasoning 
of  Mr.  Dibdin  when  he  extols  the  safety  of  the  open  sea  as 
compared  with  the  town  with  its  falling  chimneys  and  flying 
tiles,  and  commiserates  the  condition  of  the  unhappy  shore- 
folks  in  such  a  tempestuous  time.  The  thumping  of  the  sea 
against  our  wooden  walls,  the  swash  of  water  on  deck  as 
the  ship  rolls  and  pitches  as  you  would  think  it  impossible 
for  any  thing  addicted  to  the  cold  water  movement  to  roll  or 
pitch,  and  over  all  the  wild,  changeless,  shrieking  of  the 
gale,  will  not  suffer  sleep  to  visit  those  who  are  not  inured 
to  such  things.  Tired  of  bracing  up  with  knee,  and  hand, 
and  heel,  to  keep  in  their  berths,  they  lie  and  wonder  how 
many  such  blows  as  that  our  good  ship  could  endure,  and 
think  that  if  June  gets  up  such  gales  on  the  North  Atlantic, 
they  have  no  wish  to  try  the  quality  of  those  of  January. 

Morning  comes  at  last,  and  every  heart  is  cheered  by 
the  captain's  announcement,  as  he  passes  through  the  cabin, 
that  the  barometer  is  rising,  and  the  weather  has  l»egun  to 


20  AGUECHEEK. 

improve.  Some  of  the  more  hopeful  and  energetic  of  our 
company  turn  out  and  repair  to  the  deck.  The  leaden 
clouds  are  broken  up,  and  the  sun  trying  to  struggle  through 
them  ;  but  to  the  inexperienced  the  gale  appears  to  be  as 
severe  as  it  was  yesterday.  All  the  discomfort  and  danger 
of  the  time  are  forgotten,  however,  in  the  fearful  magnifi- 
cence of  the  spectacle  that  surrounds  us.  As  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach  it  seems  like  a  confused  field  of  battle,  where 
snowy  plumes  and  white  flowing  manes  show  where  the 
shock  of  war  is  felt  most  severely.  To  watch  the  gathering 
of  one  of  those  mighty  seas  that  so  often  work  destruction 
with  the  noblest  ships,  —  to  see  it  gradually  piling  up  until 
it  seems  to  be  impelled  by  a  fury  almost  intelligent,  —  to  be 
dazzled  by  its  emerald  flash  when  it  erects  its  stormy  head 
the  highest,  and  breaks  into  a  field  of  boiling  foam,  as  if 
enraged  at  being  unable  to  reach  us ;  —  these  are  things 
which  are  worth  all  the  anxiety  and  peril  that  they  cost. 

The  captain's  prognostications  prove  correct.  Our  appe- 
tites at  dinner  bear  witness  to  them ;  and  before  sunset  we 
find  our  ship  (curtailed  of  its  fair  proportion,  it  is  true,  by 
the  loss  of  its  main-top-gallant-mast)  is  under  full  sail  once 
more.  The  next  day  we  have  a  few  hours'  calm,  and  when 
a  light  breeze  does  spring  up,  it  comes  from  the  old  easterly 
quarter.  It  begins  to  seem  as  if  we  were  fated  to  sail  for- 
ever, and  never  get  any  where.  But  patience  wears  out 
even  a  head  wind,  and  at  last  the  long-look ed-for  change 
takes  place.  The  wind  slowly  hauls  to  the  south,  and  many 
are  the  looks  taken  at  the  compass  to  see  how  nearly  the 
ship  can  come  up  to  her  course.  Then  our  impatience  is 
somewhat  allayed  by  speaking  a  ship  which  has  been  out 
twelve  days  longer  than  our  own  —  for,  if  it  be  true,  as 
Rochefoucauld  says,  that  "  there  is  something  not  unpleas- 
ing  to  us  in  the  misfortunes  of  our  best  friends,"  —  how  keen 
must  be  the  satisfaction  of  finding  a  stranger-companion  in 


A  PASSAGE  ACROSS   THE   ATLANTIC.  21 

adversity.  The  wind,  though  steady,  is  not  very  strong, 
and  many  fears  are  expressed  lest  it  should  die  away  and 
give  Eurus  another  three  weeks'  chance.  But  our  forebod- 
ings are  not  realized,  and  a  sunshiny  day  comes  when  we 
are  all  ctiUed  up  from  dinner  to  see  a  long  cloud-like  affair, 
(very  like  a  whale,)  which,  we  are  told,  is  the  Old  Head  of 
Kinsale.  Straightway  all  begin  to  talk  of  getting  on  shore 
the  next  day ;  but  when  that  comes,  we  find  that  we  are 
drawing  towards  Holyhead  very  rapidly,  as  our  favourable 
wind  has  increased  to  a  gale  —  so  that  when  we  have  got 
round  Holyhead,  and  have  taken  our  pilot,  (that  burly 
visitor  whose  coming  every  one  welcomes,  and  whose  de- 
parture every  one  would  speed,)  the  aforesaid  pilot 
heaves  the  ship  to,  and,  having  a  bed  made  up  on  the  cabin 
floor,  composes  himself  to  sleep.  The  next  morning  finds 
the  gale  abated,  and  early  in  the  forenoon  we  are  running 
up  to  the  mouth  of  the  river.  The  smoke  (that  first  pre- 
monitory symptom  of  an  English  town)  hangs  over  Liver- 
pool, and  forms  a  strong  contrast  with  the  bright  green 
fields  and  verdant  hedges  which  deck  the  banks  of  the 
Mersey.  The  ship,  after  an  immense  amount  of  vocal 
power  has  been  expended  in  that  forcible  diction  which  may 
be  termed  the  marine  vernacular,  is  got  into  dock,  and  in 
the  afternoon  a  passage  of  thirty-three  days  is  concluded  by 
our  stepping  once  more  upon  the  "  inviolate  island  of  the 
sage  and  free,"  and  following  our  luggage  up  the  pier,  with 
a  swing  in  our  gait  which  any  stage  sailor  would  have 
viewed  with  envy.  The  examination  at  the  Custom  House 
is  conducted  with  a  politeness  and  despatch  worthy  of  imi- 
tation among  the  officials  of  our  Uncle  Samuel.  The  party 
of  passengers  disperses  itself  about  in  various  hotels, 
without  any  circumstance  to  hinder  their  progress  except 
falling  in  with  an  exhibition  of  Punch  and  Judy,  which 
makes  the  company  prolific  in  quotations  from  the  sayings 


22  AGUECHEEK. 

of  Messrs.  Codlin  and  Short,  and  at  last  the  family  which 
never  had  its  harmonious  unity  disturbed  by  any  thing,  is 
broken  up  forever. 

Liverpool  wears  its  old  thriving  commercial  look  —  per- 
haps it  is  a  few  shades  darker  with  smoke.  The  posters 
are  on  a  more  magnificent  scale,  both  as  regards  size  and 
colour,  than  ever  before,  and  tell  not  only  of  the  night's 
amusements,  but  promise  the  acquisition  of  wealth  outrun- 
ning the  dreams  of  avarice  in  lands  beyond  the  farthest 
Thule.  Melbourne  and  Port  Philip  vie  in  the  most  gor- 
geous colours  with  San  Francisco;  and  the  United  States  seem 
to  have  spread  wide  their  capacious  arms  to  welcome  the 
down-trodden  Irishman.  Liverpool  seems  to  be  the  gate  to 
all  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  almost  fear  to  walk  about  lest 
I  should  find  myself  starting  off,  in  a  moment  of  temporary 
insanity,  for  Greenland's  icy  mountains,  or  India's  coral 
strand. 


LONDON. 

Dull  must  he  be  of  soul  who  could  make  the  journey 
from  Liverpool  to  the  metropolis  in  the  month  of  June,  and 
not  be  lifted  above  himself  by  the  surpassing  loveliness  of 
dear  mother  Nature.  Even  if  he  were  chained  to  a  ledger 
and  cash  book  —  if  he  never  had  a  thought  or  wish  beyond 
the  broker's  board,  and  his  entire  reading  were  the  prices 
current  —  he  must  forget  them  all,  and  feel  for  the  time 
what  a  miserable  sham  his  life  is  —  or  he  does  not  deserve 
the  gift  of  sight.  It  is  Thackeray,  I  think,  who  speaks 
somewhere  of  the  "  charming  friendly  English  landscape 
that  seems  to  shake  hands  with  you  as  you  pass  along  "  — 
and  any  body  who  has  seen  it  in  June  will  say  that  this  is 
hardly  a  figurative  expression.  I  used  to  think  that  it  was 
my  enthusiastic  love  for  the  land  of  the  great  Alfred  which 
made  it  seem  so  beautiful  to  me  when  I  was  younger ;  but 
I  find  that  it  wears  too  well  to  be  a  mere  fancy  of  my  own 
brain.  People  may  complain  of  the  humid  climate  of  Eng- 
land, and  curse  the  umbrella  which  must  accompany  them 
whenever  they  walk  out ;  but  when  the  sun  does  shine,  it 
shines  upon  a  scene  of  beautiful  fertility  unequalled  else- 
where in  the  world,  and  which  the  moist  climate  produces 
and  preserves.  And  then,  too,  it  seems  doubly  grateful  to 
the  eyes  of  one  just  come  from  sea.  The  bright  freshness 
of  the  whole  landscape,  the  varied  tints  of  green,  the  trim 
hedges,  the  luxuriant  foliage  which  springs  from  the  very 
trunks  of  the  trees,  and  the  high  state  of  cultivation  which 
makes  the  whole  country  look  as  if  it  had  been  swept  and 
dusted  that  morning,  —  all  these  things  strike  an  American, 

(23) 


24  AGUECHEEK. 

for  he  cannot  help  contrasting  them  with  the  parched  fields 
of  his  own  land  in  summer,  surrounded  by  their  rough 
fences  and  hastily  piled-up  stone  walls.  The  solidity  of  the 
houses  and  cottages,  which  look  as  if  they  were  built,  not 
for  an  age,  but  for  all  time,  makes  him  think  of  the  country 
houses  of  Ameri'ui,  which  eeem  to  have  grown  up  in  a 
night,  like  our  friend  Aladdin's,  and  whose  frailty  is  so 
apparent  that  you  cannot  sneeze  in  one  of  them  without 
apprehending  a  serious  calamity.  Then  the  embankments 
of  the  railways  present  not  only  a  pleasant  sight  to  the  eye 
of  the  traveller,  but  a  pretty  httle  hay  crop  to  the  cor- 
poration ;  and  at  every  station,  and  bridge,  and  crossing, 
wherever  there  is  a  switch  to  be  tended,  you  see  the  neat 
cottages  of  the  keepers,  and  the  gardens  thereof^  the  rail- 
way companies  having  learned  that  the  expenditure  of  a 
few  hundred  pounds  in  this  way  saves  an  expenditure  of 
many  thousands  in  surgeons'  bills  and  damages,  and  is  far 
more  satisfactory  to  all  concerned. 

What  a  charming  sight  is  a  cow  —  what  a  look  of  con- 
tentment she  has  —  ambitious  of  nothing  beyond  the  field 
of  daily  duty,  and  never  looking  happier  than  when  she 
comes  at  night  to  yield  a  plenteousness  of  that  fluid  without 
which  custards  were  an  impossibility  !  Wordsworth  says 
that  "  heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy "  —  surely  he 
must  mean  that  portion  of  the  heavens  called  by  astron- 
omers the  Milky  Way.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  a  cow  by  the 
side  of  a  railway  —  provided  she  is  fenced  from  danger  — 
to  see  her  lift  her  head  slowly  as  the  train  goes  whizzing 
by,  and  gaze  with  those  mild,  tranquil  eyes  upon  the  noisy, 
smoke-puflang  monster, — just  as  the  saintly  hermits  of 
olden  times  might  have  looked  from  their  serene  heights  of 
contemplation  upon  the  dusty,  bustling  world.  The  taste 
of  the  English  farmers  for  fine  cattle  is  attested  by  a  glance 
at  any  of  their  pastures.     On  every  side  you  see  the  repre- 


LONDON.  25 

sentatives  of  Alderney's  bovine  aristocracy  ;  and  scores  of 
cattle  crop  the  juicy  grass,  rivalling  in  their  snowy  white- 
ness any  that  ever  reclined  upon  Clitumno's  "  mild  declivity 
of  hill,"  or  admired  their  graceful  horns  in  its  clear  waters. 
Until  I  saw  them,  I  never  comprehended  what  farmers 
meant  when  they  spoke  of  "  neat  cattle." 

What  an  eloquent  preacher  is  an  old  church  tower !  Moss- 
crowned  and  ivy-robed,  it  lifts  its  head,  unshaken  by  the 
tempests  of  centuries,  as  it  did  in  the  days  when  King  John 
granted  the  Great  Charter  or  the  holy  Edward  ruled  the 
realm,  and  tells  of  the  ages  when  England  was  one  in  faith, 
and  not  a  poorhouse  existed  throughout  the  land.  Like  a 
faithful  sentinel,  it  stands  guard  over  the  humbler  edifices 
around  it,  and  warns  their  inhabitants  alike  of  their  dangers 
and  their  duties  by  the  music  of  its  bells.  Erect  in  silent 
dignity,  it  receives  the  first  beams  of  the  morning,  and 
when  twilight  has  begun  to  shroud  every  thing  in  its 
neighbourhood,  the  flash  of  sunset  lingers  on  its  gray  summit. 
It  looks  down  with  sublime  indifference  upon  the  changing 
scene  below,  as  if  it  would  reproach  the  actors  there  with 
their  forgetfulness  of  the  transitoriness  of  human  pursuits, 
and  remind  them,  by  its  unchangeableness,  of  the  eternal 
year.-i. 

At  last  we  draw  near  London.  A  gentleman,  whose  age 
I  would  not  attempt  to  guess,  —  for  he  was  very  carefully 
made  up,  and  boasted  a  deportment  which  would  have  ex- 
cited the  envy  of  Mr.  Turveydrop,  senior,  —  so  far  forgot 
his  dignity  as  to  lean  forward  and  inform  me  that  the  place 
we  were  passing  was  "  'Arrow  on  the  '111,"  which  made  me 
forget  for  the  moment  both  his  appearance  and  his  uncalled- 
for  "  exasperation  of  the  haitches."  Not  long  after,  I  found 
myself  issuing  from  the  magnificent  terminus  of  the  North 
Western  Railway,  in  Euston  Square,  in  a  cab  marked 
V.  R.  10,276.  The  cab  and  omnibus  drivers  of  London 
3 


'26  AGUECHEEK. 

are  a  distinct  race  of  beings.  Who  can  write  their  natural 
history  ?  "Who  is  competent  to  such  a  task  ?  The  re- 
searches of  a  Pritchard,  a  Pickering,  a  Smyth,  would  seem 
to  cover  the  whole  subject  of  the  history  of  the  human 
species  from  the  anthropophagi  and  bojesmen  to  the 
drinkers  of  train  oil  in  the  polar  regions ;  but  the  cabmen 
are  not  included.  They  would  require  a  master  mind. 
The  subject  would  demand  the  patient  investigation  of  a 
Humboldt,  the  eloquence  of  a  Macaulay,  and  the  humour  of  a 
Dickens  —  and  even  then  would  fall  short,  I  fear,  of  giving 
an  adequate  idea  of  them.  Your  London  cab  driver  has 
no  idea  of  distance  ;  as,  for  instance,  I  ask  one  the  simple 
question,  — 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  Angel  in  Islington  ?  " 

"  Wot,  sir  ?  " 

I  repeat  my  interrogatory. 

"  O,  the  Hangel,  sir  !     Four  shillings." 

"  No,  no.     I  mean  what  distance." 

"  Well,  say  three,  then,  sir." 

"  But  I  mean  —  what  distance  ?     How  many  miles  ?  " 

"  O,  come,  sir,  jump  in  —  don't  be  'ard  on  a  fellow  —  I 
'avent  'ad  a  fare  to-day.     Call  it  'arf  a  crown,  sir." 

Leigh  Hunt  says  somewhere  that  if  there  were  such  a 
thing  as  metamorphosis,  Dr.  Johnson  would  desire  to  be 
transformed  into  an  omnibus,  that  he  might  go  rolling  along 
the  streets  whose  very  pavements  were  the  objects  of  his 
ardent  affection.  And  he  was  about  right.  What  better 
place  is  there  in  this  world  to  study  human  nature  than  an 
omnibus  ?  AU  classes  meet  there  ;  in  the  same  coach  you 
may  see  them  all  —  from  the  poor  workwoman  to  the  gen- 
teelly dressed  lady,  who  looks  as  if  she  disapproved  of  such 
conveyances,  but  must  ride  nevertheless  —  from  the  young 
sprig,  who  is  constantly  anxious  lest  some  profane  foot 
should  dim  the  polish  of  his  boots,  to  the  urbane  old  gentle- 


LONDON.  -27 

man,  who  regrets  his  corpulence,  and  would  take  less  room 
if  he  could.  And  then  the  top  of  the  omnibus,  which 
usually  carries  four  or  more  passengers,  what  a  place  is 
that  to  see  the  tide  of  life  which  flows  unceasingly  through 
the  streets  of  London  !  I  know  of  nothing  which  can  fur- 
nish more  food  for  thought  than  a  ride  on  an  omnibus  from 
Brompton  to  the  Bank  on  a  fine  day.  It  is  a  pageant,  in 
which  all  the  wealth,  pomp,  power,  and  prosperity  of  this 
world  pass  before  you ;  and  for  a  moral  to  the  whirling 
scene,  you  must  go  to  the  nearest  churchyard. 

London  is  ever  the  same.  The  omnibuses  follow  each 
other  as  rapidly  as  ever  up  and  down  the  Strand,  the  white- 
gloved,  respectable-looking  policemen  walk  about  as  delib- 
erately, and  the  tail  of  the  lion  over  the  gate  of  Northum- 
berland House  sticks  out  as  straight  as  ever.  The  only 
great  change  visible  here  is  in  the  newspapers.  The  tone 
of  society  is  so  different  from  what  it  was  formerly,  in  all 
that  concerns  France,  that  the  editors  must  experience  con- 
siderable trouble  in  accustoming  themselves  to  the  new 
state  of  things.  Once,  France  and  Louis  Napoleon  fur- 
nished Punch  with  his  chief  materials  for  satire  and  amuse- 
ment, and  if  any  of  the  larger  and  more  dignified  journals 
wished  to  let  off  a  little  ill  humour,  or  to  say  any  thing  par- 
ticularly bitter,  they  only  had  to  dip  their  pens  in  Gaul ; 
but  times  are  changed,  and  now  nothing  can  be  said  too 
strong  in  favour  of  "  our  chivalric  allies,  the  French."  The 
memory  of  St.  Helena  seems  to  have  given  place  to  what 
they  call  here  the  entente  cordiale,  which  those  who  are  ac- 
quainted with  the  French  language  assure  me  means  an 
agreement  by  which  one  party  contracts  to  "play  second 
fiddle  "  to  another,  through  fear  that  if  he  does  not  he  will 
not  be  permitted  to  play  at  all. 

To  the  man  who  thoroughly  appreciates  the  Essays  of 
Elia,  and  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson,  London  can  never 


as  AUUECUEEK. 

grow  tireaoiue.  lie  can  never  turn  a  corner  witliout  find- 
ing "  something  new,  something  to  please,  and  something  to 
instruct."  Its  very  pavements  are  classical.  And  there  is 
nothing  to  abate,  nor  detract  from,  such  a  man's  enthusiasm. 
The  traveller  who  visits  the  Roman  Forum,  or  the  Palace 
of  the  Caesars,  experiences  a  sad  check  when  he  finds  his 
progress  impeded  by  unpoetical  obstacles.  But  in  London, 
all  is  harmonious ;  he  sees  on  every  side,  not  only  that 
which  tells  of  present  life  and  prosperity,  but  the  perennial 
glories  of  England's  former  days.  Would  he  study  history, 
he  goes  to  the  Tower,  "  rich  with  the  spoils  of  time ; "  or  to 
Whitehall,  where  mad  fanaticism  consummated  its  treason- 
able work  with  the  murder  of  a  sovereign  ;  or  to  the  tower- 
ing minster,  to  gaze  upon  the  chair  in  which  the  monarchs 
of  a  thousand  years  have'  sat ;  or  to  view  the  monuments, 
and  read  the  epitaphs,  of  that  host  of 

'<  Bards,  heroes,  sages,  side  by  side, 
Who  darkened  nations  when  they  died." 

Is  he  a  lover  of  English  literature  ?  Here  are  scenes  elo- 
quent of  that  goodly  company  of  wits  and  worthies,  whose 
glowing  pages  have  been  the  delight  of  his  youth  and  the 
consolation  of  his  riper  years ;  here  are  the  streets  in  which 
they  walked,  the  taverns  in  which  they  feasted,  the  churches 
where  they  prayed,  the  tombs  where  they  repose. 

And  London  wears  well.  To  revisit  it  when  age  has 
sobered  down  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  is  not  like  seeing  a 
theatre  by  daylight ;  but  you  think  almost  that  you  have 
under-estimated  your  privileges.  How  well  I  remember 
the  night  when  I  first  arrived  in  the  metropolis !  It  was 
after  ten  o'clock,  and  I  was  much  fatigued ;  but  before  I 
booked  myself  in  my  hotel,  or  looked  at  my  room,  I  rushed 
out  into  the  Strand,  "  with  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in 
chase."     I  pushed  along,  now  turning  to  look  at  Temple 


LONDON.  29 

Bar,  now  pausing  to  take  breath  as  I  went  up  Ludgate 
Hill.  I  saw  St.  Paul's  and  its  dome  before  me,  and  I  was 
satisfied.  No,  I  was  not  satisfied  ;  for  when  I  returned  up 
Fleet  Street,  I  looked  out  dear  old  Bolt  Court,  and  entered 
its  Johnsonian  precincts  with  an  awe  and  veneration  which 
a  devout  Mussulman,  taking  the  early  train  for  Mecca, 
would  gladly  imitate.  And  then  I  posted  down  Inner  Tem- 
ple Lane,  and  looked  at  the  house  in  which  Charles  Lamb 
and  his  companions  held  their  "  Wednesday  nights ;  "  and, 
going  still  farther,  I  saw  the  river  —  I  stood  on  the  bank 
of  the  Thames,  and  I  was  satisfied.  I  looked,  and  all  the 
associations  of  English  history  and  literature  which  are 
connected  with  it  filled  my  mind  —  but  just  as  I  was  getting 
into  a  fine  frenzy  about  it,  a  watchman  hove  in  sight,  and 
the  old  clock  chimed  out  eleven.  So  I  started  on,  and 
soon  reached  my  hotel.  I  was  accosted  on  my  way  thither 
by  a  young  and  gayly  dressed  lady,  whom  I  did  not  remem- 
ber ever  to  have  seen  before,  but  who  expressed  her  satis- 
faction at  meeting  me,  in  the  most  cordial  terms.  I  told  her 
that  I  thought  that  it  must  be  a  mistake,  and  she  responded 
with  a  laugh  which  very  much  shocked  an  elderly  gentle- 
man who  was  passing,  who  looked  as  if  he  mi|^t  have 
been  got  up  for  the  part  of  the  uncle  of  the  unhappy  G. 
Barnwell.  I  have  since  learned  that  such  mistakes  and 
personal  misapprehensions  very  frequently  occur  in  Lon- 
don in  the  evening. 

Speaking  of  Temple  Bar,  it  gratifies  me  to  see  that  this 
venerable  gateway  still  stands,  "  unshaken,  unseduced,  un- 
terrified,"  by  any  of  the  recent  attempts  to  effect  its  re- 
moval. The  old  battered  and  splashed  doors  are  perhaps 
more  unsightly  than  before ;  but  the  statues  look  down  with 
the  same  benignity  upon  the  crowd  of  cabs  and  omnibuses, 
and  the  never-ending  tide  of  humanity  which  flows  beneath 
them,  as  they  did  upon  the  Rake's  Progress,  so  many 
3* 


30  AQUECHEEK. 

years  ago.  The  sacrilegious  commissioners  of  streets  long 
to  get  at  it  with  their  crows  and  picks,  but  the  shade  of  Dr. 
Johnson  watches  over  the  barrier  of  his  earthly  home.  It 
is  not  an  ornamental  affair,  to  be  sure,  and  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult for  Mr.  Choate,  even,  to  defend  it  against  the  charge  of 
being  an  obstruction ;  but  its  associations  with  the  literature 
and  history  of  the  last  two  or  three  centuries  ought  to  en- 
title its  dingy  arches  to  a  certain  degree  of  reverence,  even 
in  our  progressive  and  irreverent  age.  The  world  would 
be  a  loser  by  the  demolition  of  this  ancient  landmark,  and 
London,  if  it  should  lose  this,  though  it  might  still  be  the 
metropolis  of  the  British  empire,  would  cease  to  be  the 
London  of  Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  of  Addison  and  Pope, 
of  Swifl  and  Hogarth. 

Perhaps  some  may  think,  from  what  I  have  said  in  the 
commencement  of  this  letter,  that  my  enthusiasm  has 
blinded  me  to  those  great  moral  and  social  evils  which  are 
apparent  in  English  civilization :  but  it  is  not  so.  I  love 
England  rather  for  what  she  has  been  than  for  what  she  is ; 
I  love  the  England  of  Alfred  and  St.  Edward ;  and  when 
I  contrast  the  present  state  with  what  it  might  ,have  been 
under  aUsuccession  of  such  rulers,  I  cannot  but  grieve. 
Truly  the  court  of  St.  James  under  Victoria  is  not  what  it 
was  under  Charles  II.,  nor  even  under  Mr.  Thackeray's 
favourite  hero,  "the  great  George  IV.,"  —  but  are  not  St. 
James  and  St.  Giles  farther  apart  than  ever  before  ?  Is 
not  Lazarus  looked  upon  as  a  nuisance,  which  legislation 
ought,  for  decency's  sake,  to  put  out  of  the  way  ?  What 
does  England  do  for  the  poor?  Nothing;  absolutely  noth- 
ing, if  you  except  a  system  of  workhouses,  compared  with 
which  prisons  are  delightful  residences,  and  which  seems  to 
have  been  intended  more  for  the  punishment  of  poverty 
than  as  a  work  of  charity.  No ;  on  the  contrary,  she  dis- 
countenances works  of  charity  5  when  a  few  earnest  men 


LONDON.  31 

among  the  clergy  of  her  divided  church  make  an  effort  in 
that  direction,  there  is  an  outcry,  and  they  must  be  jxit 
down ;  and  their  bishops,  whose  annual  incomes  are  larger 
than  the  whole  treasury  of  Alfred,  admonish  them  to  be- 
ware how  they  thus  imitate  the  superstitions  of  the  middle 
ages.  No  ;  your  Englishman  of  the  present  day  has  some- 
thing better  to  do  than  to  look  after  the  beggar  at  his  door- 
step ;  he  is  too  respectable  a  man  for  that ;  he  pays  his 
"  poor  rates,"  and  the  police  must  order  the  thing  of  shreds 
and  patches  to  "  move  on  ; "  his  progress  must  not  be  im- 
peded, for  his  presence  is  required  at  a  meeting  of  the 
friends  of  Poland,  or  of  Italy,  or  of  a  society  for  the  aboli- 
tion of  American  slavery,  and  he  has  no  time  to  waste  on 
such  common,  every-day  matters  as  the  improvement  of 
the  miserable  wretches  who  work  his  coal  mines,  or  of 
those  quarters  of  the  town  where  vice  pai"ades  its  deformity 
with  exulting  pride,  and  the  air  is  heavy  with  pestilence. 
There  is  proportionably  more  beggary  in  London  at  this 
hour  than  in  any  continental  city.  And  such  beggary ! 
Not  the  comfortable,  jolly-looking  beggars  you  may  see  in 
Rome  or  Naples,  who  know  that  charity  is  enjoined  upon 
the  people  as  a  religious  duty,  but  the  thin,  pallid,  high- 
cheeked  supplicants,  whose  look  is  a  petition  which  tells  a 
more  effective  story  than  words  can  frame  of  destitution 
and  starvation. 

But  there  is  another  phase  of  this  part  of  London  life, 
sadder  by  far  than  that  of  mere  poverty.  It  is  an  evil 
which  no  attempt  is  made  to  prevent,  and  so  great  an 
evil  that  its  very  mention  is  forbidden  by  the  spii'it  of 
this  age  of  "superficial  morality  and  skin-deep  propri- 
ety." I  pity  the  man  who  can  walk  through  Regent  Street 
or  the  Strand  in  the  evening,  unsaddened  by  what  he  shall 
see  on  every  side.  How  ridiculous  do  our  boasts  of  this 
Christian   nineteenth  century  seem  there !     Here    is  this 


32  AGUECHEEK. 

mighty  Anglo-Saxon  race,  which  can  build  steam  enginet*, 
and  telegraphs,  and  clipper  ships,  which  tunnels  mountains, 
and  exerts  an  almost  incredible  mastery  over  the  forces  of 
nature,  —  and  yet,  when  Magdalene  looks  up  to  it  for  a 
merciful  hand  to  lift  her  from  degradation  and  sin,  she  finds 
it  either  deaf  or  powerless.  There  is  a  work  yet  to  be  done 
in  London  which  would  stagger  a  philanthropist,  if  he  were 
gifted  with  thrice  the  heroism,  and  patience,  and  self-forget- 
fulness  of  a  St.  Vincent  of  Paul. 

I  cannot  resist  the  inclination  to  give  in  this  connection  s 
passage  from  the  personal  experience  of  a  friend  in  London, 
which,  had  I  read  it  in  any  book  or  newspaper,  I  should 
have  hesitated  to  believe.  One  evening,  as  he  was  passing 
along  Pall  Mall,  he  was  addressed  by  a  young  woman,  who, 
when  she  saw  that  he  was  going  to  pass  on  and  take  no 
notice  of  her,  ran  before  him,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  the  most 
pathetic  earnestness,  — 

"  Well,  if  you'll  not  go  with  me,  for  God's  sake,  sir,  give 
me  a  trifle  to  buy  bread  !  " 

Thus  appealed  to,  and  somewhat  shaken  by  the  voice  and 
manner,  he  stopped  under  a  gaslight,  and  looked  at  the 
speaker.  Vice  had  not  impressed  its  distinctive  seal  so 
strongly  upon  her  as  upon  most  of  the  unfortunate  creatures 
one  meets  in  London's  streets  ;  indeed,  there  was  a  shade 
of  melancholy  on  her  face  which  harmonized  well  with  her 
voice  and  manner.  So  my  friend  resolved  to  have  a  few 
words  more  with  her,  and  buttoning  up  his  coat,  to  protect 
his  watch  and  purse,  he  told  her  that  he  feared  she  wanted 
money  to  buy  gin  rather  than  bread.  She  assured  him  that 
it  was  not  so,  but  that  she  wished  to  buy  food  for  her  little 
child,  a  girl  of  two  or  three  years.  Then  he  asked  how 
she  could  lead  such  a  life,  if  she  had  a  child  growing  up, 
upon  whom  her  example  would  have  such  an  influence? 
and  she  said  that  she  would  gladly  take  up  with  an  hones' 


LONDON.  33 

occupation,  if  she  could  find  one,  —  indeed,  she  did  try  to 
earn  enough  for  the  daily  wants  of  herself  and  child  with 
her  needle,  but  it  was  impossible,  —  and  her  only  choice 
was  between  starvation  and  the  street.  At  that  time  she 
said  that  she  was  learning  the  trade  of  a  dressmaker,  and 
she  hoped  that  before  long  she  should  be  able  to  keep  her- 
self above  absolute  necessity.  Encouraged  by  a  kind  word 
from  my  friend,  she  went  on  in  a  simple,  womanly  manner, 
and  told  him  of  her  whole  career.  It  was  the  old  story  of 
plighted  troth,  betrayed  affection,  and  flight  from  her  village 
home,  to  escape  the  shame  and  reproach  she  would  there 
be  visited  with.  She  arrived  in  London  without  money, 
without  friends,  without  employment,  —  without  any  thing 
save  that  natural  womanly  self-respect  which  had  received 
such  a  severe  blow  :  —  necessity  stared  her  in  the  face,  and 
she  sank  before  it.  My  friend  was  impressed  by  the  recital 
of  her  misfortunes,  and  thinking  that  she  must  be  sincere, 
he  took  a  sovereign  from  his  purse  and  gave  it  to  her.  She 
looked  from  the  gift  to  the  giver,  and  thanked  him  again 
and  again.  He  continued  his  walk,  but  had  not  gone  more 
than  three  or  four  rods,  when  she  came  running  after  him, 
and  reiterated  her  expressions  of  thankfulness  with  a  trem- 
bling voice.  He  then  walked  on,  and  crossed  over  to  the 
front  of  the  Church  of  St.  Martin,  (that  glorious  soldier  who 
with  his  sword  divided  his  cloak  with  the  beggar,)  when  she 
came  after  him  yet  again,  and  seizing  hold  of  his  hand,  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  streaming  eyes,  and  said,  holding  the 
sovereign  in  her  hand,  — 

"  God  bless  you,  sir,  again  and  again  for  your  kindness  to 
me  !  Pray  pardon  me,  sir,  for  troubling  you  so  much  —  but 
—  but  —  perhaps  you  meant  to  give  me  a  shilling,  sir,  — 
perhaps  you  don't  know  that  you  gave  me  a  sovereign." 

How  many  models  of  propriety  and  respectability  in  every 
rank  of  life,  —  how  many  persona  who  have  the  technical 


34  AGUECHEEK. 

language  of  religion  constantly  on  their  lips,  —  how  many  of 
those  who,  nurtured  amid  the  influences  of  a  good  home 
have  never  really  known  what  temptation  is,  —  how  manj 
such  persons  are  there  who  might  learn  a  startling  lesson 
from  this  fallen  woman,  whom  they  seem  to  consider  them- 
selves religiously  bound  to  despise  and  neglect !  I  have  h 
great  dread  of  these  severely  virtuous  people,  who  are  sc 
superior  to  all  human  frailty  that  they  cannot  afford  a  kint 
word  to  those  who  have  not  the  good  fortune  to  be  impec- 
cable. But  we  all  of  us,  I  fear,  need  to  be  remmded  of 
Burns's  lines  — 

"  What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
But  know  not  what's  resisted." 

If  we  thought  of  this,  keeping  our  own  weaknesses  in  view, 
which  of  us  would  not  shrink  from  judging  uncharitably,  oi 
casting  the  first  stone  at  an  erring  fellow-creature  ?  Whicl 
of  us  would  dare  to  condemn  the  poor  girl  who  preserved  sc 
much  of  the  spirit  of  honesty  in  her  degradation,  and  to 
commend  the  negative  virtues  which  make  up  so  many 
of  what  the  world  calls  good  lives  ? 


ANTWERP   AND    BRUSSELS. 

It  is  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  get  one's  passport  vised 
(even  though  a  pretty  good  fee  is  demanded  for  it,)  and  to 
make  preparations  for  leaving  London,  at  almost  any  time ; 
but  it  is  particularly  so  when  the  weather  has  been  doing 
its  worst  for  a  fortnight,  and  the  atmosphere  is  so  "  thick 
and  slab "  that  to  compare  it  to  pea-soup  would  be  doing 
that  excellent  compound  a  great  injustice.  It  is  very  pleas- 
ant to  think  of  getting  out  from  under  that  blanket  of 
smoke  and  fog,  and  escaping  to  a  land  where  the  sun  shines 
occasionally,  and  where  the  manners  of  the  people  make  a 
perpetual  sunshine  which  renders  you  independent  of  the 
weather.  If  there  ever  was  a  day  to  which  that  expressive 
old  Saxon  epithet  nasty  might  be  justly  applied,  it  was  the 
one  on  which  I  left  the  greasy  pavements  of  London,  and 
(after  a  contest  with  a  cabman,  which  ended,  as  such  things 
generally  do,  in  a  compromise)  found  myself  on  board  one 
of  the  fast-sailing  packets  of  the  General  Steam  Navigation 
Company,  at  St.  Catharine's  Wharf,  just  below  the  espla- 
nade of  the  Tower,  The  beautiful  banks  of  the  river  below 
the  city,  the  fine  pile  of  buildings,  and  the  rich  foliage  of 
the  park  at  Greenwich,  seemed  to  have  laid  aside  their 
charms,  and  shrouded  themselves  in  mourning  for  the  death 
of  sunshine.  The  steamer  was  larger  than  most  of  those 
which  ply  in  the  Channel ;  but  the  crowded  cabins  and 
diminutive  state-rooms  made  me  think  with  envy  of  the 
passengers  from  New  York  to  Fall  River  that  afternoon. 
And  there  was  a  want  of  attention  to  those  details  which 
would  have  improved  the  appearance  of  the  boat  greatly  — 

(35) 


36  AGUECHEEK. 

which  made  me  wish  that  her  commander  might  have 
served  his  apprenticeship  on  Long  Island  Sound  or  on  the 
Hudson. 

The  company  was  composed  of  about  the  usual  admix- 
ture of  English  and  foreign  beauty  and  manliness  ;  and  the 
English,  French,  Dutch,  and  German  languages  were  con- 
founded in  such  a  manner  as  to  bring  to  mind  the  doings 
of  the  committee  on  the  construction  of  public  works  re- 
corded in  Genesis.  Among  the  crowd  of  young  Cockneys 
in  jockeyish-looking  caps,  with  travelling  pouches  strapped 
to  their  sides,  there  was  a  rather  tall  gentleman  in  a  cleri- 
cal suit,  with  his  throat  covered  with  the  usual  white  ban- 
dages. His  highly  respectable  look,  and  the  eminently 
"  evangelical "  expression  of  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  made 
me  feel  quite  sure  that  I  Imti  found  a  character.  He  had 
three  little  boys  with  him ;  and  as  far  as  appearance  went, 
he  might  have  been  Dickens's  model  for  Dr.  Blimber,  (the 
principal  of  that  celebrated  academy  where  they  had 
mental  green  peas  and  intellectual  asparagus  all  the  year 
round,)  for  he  had  the  eye  of  a  pedagogue  "  to  threaten  and 
command,"  and  his  fixed  look  was  the  one  which  my  old 
schoolmaster's  face  wore  when  he  turned  up  his  wristbands, 
and,  taking  his  ruler,  said,  "  I  am  very  sorry,  Andrew ; 
but  you  know  that  it  is  for  your  good."  His  conversation 
savoured  so  strongly  of  the  dictionary,  that,  even  if  I  had 
been  blind,  I  should  have  said  that  the  speaker  had  spent 
•years  in  correcting  the  compositions  of  ingenuous  youth.  I 
shall  not  forget  his  look  of  wonder  when  he  asked  one  of 
the  engineers  what  was  the  matter  with  a  dog  that  was 
yelping  about  the  deck,  and  received  for  a  reply  that  he 
tumbled  off  the  quarter  deck,  and  was  strained  in  the  gar- 
ret. However,  I  enjoyed  two  or  three  hours'  conversation 
with  him  very  much  —  if  it  could  be  called  conversation 
when  he  did  all  the  talking. 


ANTWERP  AND  BRUSSELS.  37 

Towards  evening,  when  we  found  ourselves  in  the  open 
sea,  the  south-westerly  swell  rolled  up  finely  from  the  Good- 
win Sands,  and  produced  a  scene  to  remind  a  disinterested 
spectator  of  Punch's  touching  pictorial  representation  of  the 
commencement  of  the  continental  tour  of  Messrs.  Brown, 
Jones,  and  Robinson.  I  soon  perceived  that  a  conspicuous 
collection  of  white  bowls,  which  adorned  the  main  saloon, 
was  not  a  mere  matter  of  ornament.  The  amount  of  med- 
icine for  the  prevention  or  cure  of  seasickness,  which  was 
taken  by  my  fellow-voyagers  from  flat  bottles  covered 
with  wicker-work,  would  have  astonished  the  most  ardent 
upholder  of  the  old  allopathic  practice.  But  all  the  pitch- 
ing and  rolling  of  the  steamer,  and  the  varied  occupations 
of  the  passengers,  did  not  interfere  with  my  repose.  I 
slept  as  soundly  in  my  narrow  accommodations  as  if  I  had 
been  within  hearing  of  the  rattling  of  the  omnibuses  of  my 
native  city. 

The  next  morning  I  was  out  in  good  season ;  and  though 
I  do  not  consider  myself  either  "  remote,"  "  unfriended," 
"  melancholy,"  or  "  slow,"  I  found  myself  upon  the  "  lazy 
Scheldt,"  with  Antwerp's  heaven-kissing  spire  climbing  up 
the  hazy  perspective.  The  banks  of  the  Scheldt  are  not 
very  picturesque ;  indeed,  a  person  of  the  strongest  poeti- 
cal susceptibilities  might  approach  Flanders  without  the 
slightest  apprehension  of  an  attack  of  his  weakness.  I 
could  not  help  congratulating  myself,  though,  on  having 
been  spared  to  see  the  country  which  was  immortalized  by 
the  profanity  of  a  great  militaiy  force. 

We  Americans  usually  consider  ourselves  up  to  the 
times,  and  are  prone  to  sneer  at  Russia  for  being  eleven 
days  behind  the  age ;  but  we  do  not  yet  "  beat  the  Dutch  "  in 
progress,  for  they  are  half  an  hour  in  advance,  as  I  found, 
very  soon  after  landing,  that  all  the  church  clocks,  with  a 
great  deal  of  fonnality  and  precision,  struck  nine,  when  the 
4 


88  AGUECHEEK. 

hands  only  pointed  to  half  past  eight ;  and  I  noted  a  simi- 
lar phenomenon  while  I  was  taking  breakfast  an  hour  after. 
Antwerp  is  a  beautiful  old  city,  and  its  quiet  streets  are 
very  pleasant,  after  the  tumult  and  roar  of  London  ;  but  — 
there  is  one  drawback  —  it  is  too  scrupulously  clean.  I 
almost  feared  to  walk  about,  lest  I  should  unknowingly  do 
some  damage ;  and  every  door-handle  and  bell-pull  had  a 
most  unhospitable  polish,  which  seemed  to  say  with  the 
placards  in  the  Crystal  Palace,  "  Please  not  to  handle." 
Cleanliness  is  a  great  virtue  ;  but  when  it  is  carried  to  such 
an  extent  that  you  cannot  find  your  books  and  papers 
which  you  left  carefully  arranged  yesterday  on  your  table, 
—  when  it  gets  to  be  a  monomania  with  man  or  woman,  — 
it  becomes  a  bore.  How  strangely  the  first  two  or  three 
hours  in  a  Dutch  town  strike  a  stranger  !  —  the  odd,  high- 
gabled  houses,  the  queer  head-dresses,  (graceful  because  of 
their  very  ungracefnlness,)  the  wooden  shoes,  and  the  lan- 
guage, which  sounds  like  English  spoken  by  a  toothless 
person.  But  one  very  soon  gets  accustomed  to  it.  It  is 
like  being  in  an  Oriental  city,  where  the  great  variety  of 
costumes  and  languages,  and  the  different  manners  of  the 
people,  make  up  an  ensemble  which  a  stranger  thinks  will 
be  a  lasting  novelty ;  but  on  his  second  day  he  finds  him- 
self taking  about  as  much  notice  of  a  Persian  caravan  as 
he  would  of  a  Canton  Street  or  Sixth  Avenue  omnibus. 

I  might  here  indulge  in  a  little  harmless  enthusiasm 
about  this  grand  old  cathedral  of  Antwerp.  I  might  talk 
about  the  "  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault,"  and  give  an 
elaborate  description  of  it,  —  its  enormous  dimensions  and 
artistic  glories,  —  if  I  did  not  know  that  any  reader  who 
desires  such  things  can  find  them  set  down  with  greater  ex- 
actness than  becomes  me,  in  any  of  the  guide  books  for 
Belgium.  I  spent  the  greater  proportion  of  my  waking 
hours  in  Antwerp  under  the  solemn  arches  of  that  majestic 


ANTWERP    AND    BRUSSELS.  39 

old  church.  I  wonder,  shall  we  ever  see  any  thing  in 
America  to  remind  us  even  faintly  of  the  glories  of  Ant- 
werp, Cologne,  Rouen,  Amiens,  York,  or  Milan?  I  feat 
not.  The  ages  that  built  those  glorious  piles  thought  less 
of  fat  dividends  •  than  this  boastful  nineteenth  century  of 
ours,  and  their  religion  was  not  the  mere  one-day-out-of 
seven  affair  that  the  improved  Christianity  of  to-day  is. 
The  architects  who  conceived  and  executed  those  marvels 
of  sublimity  never  troubled  themselves  with  our  popular 
query,  "  Will  it  pay  ?  "  any  more  than  Dante  interrupted  the 
inspiration  of  his  Paradiso,  or  Beethoven  the  linked  har- 
mony of  his  matchless  symphonies,  with  their  solicitude 
about  the  amount  of  their  copyright.  No  ;  their  work  in- 
spired them,  and  while  it  reflected  their  genius,  it  imparted 
to  them  something  of  its  own  divine  dignity.  Their  art  be- 
came religion,  and  its  laborious  processes  acts  of  the  most 
fervent  devotion.  But  we  have  reformed  all  that,  and  now 
inspiration  has  to  give  way  to  considerations  of  the  greatest 
number  of  "  sittings,"  that  can  possibly  be  provided,  and  if 
the  expenses  of  the  sacred  enterprise  can  be  lessened  by 
contriving  accommodation  for  shops  or  storage  in  the  base- 
ment, who  does  not  rejoice  ?  There  are  too  many  churches 
nowadays  built  upon  the  foundation  of  the  profits,  leaving 
the  apostles  entirely  out  of  the  question. 

But  while  I  lament  our  want  of  those  wonderful  con- 
structions whose  very  stones  seem  to  have  grown  conscious- 
ly into  forms  of  beauty,  I  must  record  my  satisfaction  at 
the  improvement  in  architectural  taste  which  is  visible  in 
most  of  our  cities  at  home.  If  we  must  have  banks,  and 
railway  stations,  and  shops,  it  is  some  compensation  to  have 
them  made  pleasant  to  our  sight.  Buildings  are  the  books 
that  every  body  unconsciously  reads ;  and  if  they  are  a 
libel  on  the  laws  of  architecture,  they  will  surely  vitiate  in 
time  the  taste  of  those  who  become  familiarized  to  their 


40  AGUECUEEK. 

deformity.  Dr.  Johnson  said,  thai  '•  if  a  man's  hands  were 
dirty,  his  thoughts  would  be  dirty  ;  "  and  it  may  be  declared, 
with  much  more  reason,  that  those  who  are  obliged  to  look, 
day  after  day,  at  ungraceful,  mean,  and  unsubstantial  ob- 
jects, lose,  by  degrees,  their  sense  of  the 'beautiful  and  the 
harmonious,  and  set  forth,  in  the  poverty  of  their  minds, 
the  meanness  of  their  surroundings. 

On  one  account  I  have  again  and  again  blessed  the  star 
that  guided  me  to  Antwerp,  —  that  is,  for  the  pleasure 
afforded  me  by  its  treasures  of  art.  I  have,  in  times  past, 
fed  fat  my  appetite  for  the  beautiful  in  the  galleries  of 
Italy,  and  therefore  counted  but  little  on  the  contents  of  the 
museum  and  churches  of  this  ancient  city.  Do  not  be 
frightened,  beloved  reader ;  I  am  not  going  to  launch  out 
into  the  muddy  stream  of  artistic  criticism.  I  despise  most 
of  that  which  passes  current  under  that  dignified  name,  as 
heartily  as  you  do.  Even  the  laurels  of  Mr.  Ruskin  can- 
not rob  me  of  a  moment's  repose.  I  cannot  if  I  would,  nor 
would  I  if  1  could,  talk  learnedly  about  pictures.  So  I  can 
safely  promise  not  to  bore  you  with  any  "  breadth  of  colour- 
ing," and  to  keep  very  "  shady  "  about  ckiaro  'scuro.  I  only 
wish  to  say  that  he  who  has  never  been  in  Antwerp  does 
not  know  who  Rubens  was.  He  may  know  that  an  indus- 
trious painter  of  that  name  once  lived,  and  painted  (as  I 
used  to  think,  judging  from  most  of  his  works  that  1  had 
seen  elsewhere)  a  variety  of  fat,  flaxen-haired  women  ;  but 
of  Rubens,  the  great  master,  the  painter  of  the  Crucifixion, 
and  the  Descent  from  the  Cross,  he  is  as  ignorant  as  a 
fourth-form  boy  in  the  public  schools  of  Patagonia.  It  is 
worth  a  month  of  seasick  voyaging  to  see  the  works  of 
Rubens  and  Vandyck  which  Antwerp  possesses ;  and  the 
only  regret  connected  with  my  visit  there  has  been,  that  I 
could  not  give  more  days  to  the  study  of  them  than  1  could 
hours. 


ANTWERP   AND   BRUSSELS.  41 

It  is  but  fifteen  miles  from  Antwerp  to  Mechlin,  or  Ma- 
lines,  (as  the  people  here,  in  the  depths  of  their  ignorance, 
insist  upon  calling  it,)  and  as  a  representative  of  a  natior 
whose  sole  criterion  is  success,  and  whose  list  of  the  cardi 
nal  virtues  is  headed  by  Prosperity,  I  felt  that  it  would  be  t 
grievous  sin  of  omission  for  me  not  to  stop  and  visit  thai 
thriving  old  town.  It  did  not  require  much  time  to  walk 
through  its  nice,  quiet  streets,  and  look  at  the  pictures  and 
wood  carvings  in  its  veneral)le  churches.  The  white- 
capped  and  bright-eyed  lace-makers  sat  in  windows  and 
doorways,  their  busy  fingers  forming  fabrics,  the  sight  of 
which  would  kindle  the  fire  of  covetousness  in  any  female 
heart.  Three  hours  in  Mechlin  sufficed  to  make  me  about 
as  well  acquainted  with  it  as  if  I  had  daily  waked  up  its 
echoes  with  the  creaking  of  my  shoes,  until  their  thick  soles 
were  worn  out  past  all  hope  of  tapping.  Selecting  one  of 
the  numerous  railways  that  branch  out  from  Mechlin,  like 
the  reins  from  the  hand  of  a  popular  circus  rider  in  his 
favourite  "  sLx-horse-act,"  the  "  Courier  of  St.  Petersburg," 
I  took  a  ticket  for  Brussels,  and  soon  found  myself  spinning 
along  over  these  fertile  plains,  whose  joyous  verdure  I  had 
not  sufficient  time  to  appreciate  before  I  found  myself  in 
the  capital  of  Belgium. 

And  what  a  charming  place  this  city  of  lace  and  carpets 
is  !  Clean  as  a  parlour,  not  a  speck  nor  a  stain  to  be  seen 
any  where,  with  less  of  Dutch  stiffness  and  more  of  French 
ease,  so  that  you  do  not  feel  so  much  like  an  intruder  as  in 
most  other  strange  cities.  Brussels  is  a  kind  of  vestibule  to 
Paris ;  its  streets,  its  shops,  its  public  edifices  are  all  re- 
flections in  miniature  of  those  of  the  French  metropolis. 
It  has  long  seemed  to  me  so  natural  a  preparation  for  the 
meridian  splendours  of  Paris,  that  to  go  thither  in  any  other 
way  than  through  Brussels,  is  as  if  you  should  enter  a 
saloon  by  a  back  window,  rather  than  through  the  legitimate 
4* 


42  aguecAree. 

front  door.  In  one  respect  I  prefer  Brussels  to  Paris  ;  it 
is  smaller,  and  your  mind  takes  it  all  in  at  once.  In  the 
French  capital,  its  very  vastness  bewilders  you.  You  are 
in  the  condition  of  the  gentleman  whose  wife  was  so  fat  that 
when  he  wished  to  embrace  her,  he  was  obliged  to  make 
two  actions  of  the  feat,  and  use  a  bit  of  chalk  to  insure  the 
proper  distribution  of  his  caress.  But  in  Brussels  every 
thing  is  so  harmoniously  and  compactly  combined,  that  you 
can  enjoy  it  all  at  once.  How  does  one's  mind  treasure  up 
his  rambles  through  these  fair  streets  and  gay  arcades,  his 
leisurely  walks  on  these  spacious  boulevards,  or  under  the 
dense  shade  of  this  lovely  park,  his  musings  in  this  fine  old 
church  of  Ste.  Gudule,  whose  gorgeous  windows  symbol- 
ize the  heavenly  bow,  and  whose  air  of  devotion  is 
eloquent  of  the  undying  hope  which  abides  within  its  con- 
secrated precincts  !  How  one  looks  back  years  after  leaving 
Brussels,  and  conjures  up,  in  his  memory,  its  public  monu- 
ments, from  that  exceedingly  diminutive  and  peculiar  statue 
near  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  which  has  pursued  its  useful  and 
ornamental  career  for  so  many  centuries,  to  the  heroic 
equestrian  figure  of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  in  the  Place 
Royale  !  How  vividly  does  one  remember  the  old  Gothic 
hall,  which  has  remained  unchanged  during  the  many  years 
that  have  passed  since  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  there  laid 
down  the  burden  of  his  power,  and  exchanged  the  throne 
for  the  cloister. 

One  of  the  most  delightful  recollections  of  my  term  of 
residence  in  Brussels,  is  of  a  bright  summer  day,  when  I 
made  an  excursion  to  the  field  of  Waterloo.  Some  Eng- 
lishmen have  established  a  line  of  coaches  for  the  purpose  — 
real  old  fashioned  coaches,  with  a  driver  and  a  guard,  which 
latter  functionary  performed  Yankee  Doodle  most  admira- 
bly on  his  melodious  horn  as  we  rattled  out  of  town.  The 
roadside  views  cannot  have  cbanged  much  since  the  night 


ANTWERP   AND   BRUSSELS.  43 

when  the  pavement  shook  beneath  the  heavy  artillery  and 
thundering  tramp  of  Wellington's  army.  The  forest  of 
Soignies  (or,  to  use  its  poetical  name,  Arden)  looked  as  it 
might  have  looked  before  it  was  immortalized  by  a  Tacitus 
and  a  Shakspeare ;  and  its  fresh  foliage  was  "  dewy  with 
Nature's  tear-drops,"  over  our  two  coach  loads  of  pleasure- 
seekers,  just  as  Byron  describes  it  to  have  been  over  the 
"  unreturning  brave,"  who  passed  beneath  it  forty  years 
ago.  Our  party  was  shown  over  the  memorable  field  by  an 
old  English  sergeant  who  was  in  the  battle  ;  a  fine  bluff  old 
fellow,  and  a  gentleman  withal,  who,  though  his  head  was 
white,  had  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  young  soldier.  It  was 
the  most  interesting  trip  of  the  kind  that  I  ever  made,  far 
surpassing  my  expectations,  for  the  ground  remains  liter- 
ally in  statu  qtto  ante  helium.  No  commissioners  of  high- 
ways have  interfered  with  its  historical  boundaries.  It 
remains,  for  the  most  part,  under  cultivation,  as  it  was  before 
it  became  famous,  and  the  grain  grows,  perhaps,  more  lux- 
uriantly for  the  chivalric  blood  once  shed  there.  There 
they  are,  unchanged,  those  localities  which  seem  to  so  many 
mere  inventions  of  the  historian,  Mont  St.  Jean,  the  farm 
of  La  Haye  Sainte,  the  chateau  of  Hougoumont,  the 
orchard  with  its  low  brick  wall,  over  which  the  chosen 
troops  of  France  and  England  fought  hand  to  hand,  and 
the  spot  where  the  last  great  charge  was  made,  and  the 
spell  which  held  Europe  in  awe  of  the  name  of  Napoleon, 
and  made  that  name  his  country's  watchword,  and  the  syno- 
nyme  of  victory,  was  broken  forever.  Perhaps  I  err  in 
saying  forever,  for  France  is  certainly  not  unmindful  of 
that  name  even  now.  That  showery  afternoon,  when  the 
great  conqueror  saw  his  veterans,  against  whom  scores  of 
battle  fields,  and  all  the  terrors  of  a  Russian  campaign, 
proved  powerless,  cut  to  pieces  and  dispersed  by  a  superior 
force,  to  which  the  news  of  coming  reenforcements  gave 


44  AGUECHEEK. 

new  strength  and  courage,  —  that  very  afternoon  a  boy,  with- 
out a  thought  of  battles  or  their  consequences,  was  playing 
in  the  quiet  grounds  of  the  chateau  of  Malmaison.  If  Na- 
poleon could  have  looked  forward  forty  years,  if  he  could 
have  foreseen  the  romantic  career  of  that  child,  and  fol- 
lowed him  through  thirty  years  of  exile,  imprisonment,  and 
discouragement,  until  he  saw  hira  reestablish  the  empire 
which  was  then  overthrown,  and  place  France  on  a  higher 
pinnacle  of  power  than  she  ever  knew  before,  how  compara- 
tively insignificant  would  have  seemed  to  him  the  conse- 
quences of  that  last  desperate  charge !  If  he  could  have 
seen  that  it  was  reserved  to  his  nephew,  the  grandchild  of 
his  divorced  but  faithful  Josephine,  to  avenge  Waterloo  by 
an  alliance  more  fatal  to  England's  prestige  than  any  inva- 
sion could  be,  and  that  the  armies  which  had  that  day  borne 
such  bloody  witness  to  their  unconquerable  daring,  would 
forty  years  later  be  united  to  resist  the  encroachments  of 
the  power  which  first  checked  him  in  his  career  of  victory, 
he  would  have  had  something  to  think  of  during  that 
gloomy  night  besides  the  sad  events  that  had  wrought  such 
a  fearful  change  in  his  condition. 

I  returned  to  Brussels  in  the  afternoon,  meditating  on 
the  scenes  I  had  visited,  and  repeating  the  five  stanzas  of 
Childe  Hai'old  in  which  Byron  has  commemorated  the  bat- 
tle of  "Waterloo.  In  the  evening  I  read,  with  new  pleas- 
ure, Thackeray's  graphic  Waterloo  chapter  in  Vanity  Fair, 
and  dreamed  all  night  of  falling  empires  and  "  garments 
rolled  in  blood."     And  now  I  turn  my  face  towards  Italy. 


GENOA  AND  FLORENCE. 

It  is  a  happy  day  in  every  one's  life  when  he  commences 
his  journey  into  Italy.  That  glorious  land,  "  rich  with  the 
spoils  of  time "  above  all  others,  endeared  to  every  heart 
possessing  any  sense  of  the  beautiful  in  poetry  and  art,  or 
of  the  heroic  in  history,  rises  up  before  him  as  it  was  wont 
to  do  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  when  Childe  Harold's  glow- 
ing numbers  gave  a  tone  of  enthusiasm  to  his  every  thought, 
and  filled  him  with  longings,  for  the  realization  of  which  he 
hardly  dared  to  hope.  For  the  time,  the  commonest  ac- 
tions of  the  traveller  seem  to  catch  something  of  the  inde- 
scribable charm  of  the  land  to  which  he  is  journeying.  The 
ticketing  of  luggage  and  the  securing  of  a  berth  on  board  a 
steamer  —  occupations  which  are  not  ordinarily  considered 
particularly  agreeable  —  become  invested  with  an  attrac- 
tiveness that  makes  him  wonder  how  he  could  ever  have 
found  them  irksome.  If  he  approaches  Italy  by  land  from 
France  or  Switzerland,  with  what  curiosity  does  he  study 
the  varied  features  of  the  Piedmontese  landscape  !  He 
recognizes  the  fertile  fields  which  he  read  about  in  Tacitus 
years  ago,  and  endeavours  to  find  in  the  strange  dialect 
which  he  hears  spoken  in  the  brief  stops  of  the  diligence 
to  change  horses,  something  to  remind  him  even  faintly  of 
the  melodious  tongue  with  whose  accents  Grisi  and  Bosio 
had  long  since  made  him  familiar.  Meanwhile  his  imagi- 
nation is  not  idle,  and  his  mind  is  filled  with  historical  pic- 
tures drawn  from  the  classical  pages  which  he  once  found 
any  thing  but  entertaining.  Though  he  may  be  fresh  from 
the  cloudless  atmosphere  of  fair  Provence,  he  fancies  that 

(46) 


46  AGUECUEEK. 

the  sky  is  bluer  and  the  air  more  pure  than  he  ever  saw 
before. 

It  is  a  great  advantage  to  enter  Italy  from  the  sea.  In 
this  way  you  perceive  more  clearly  the  national  character- 
istics, and  enter  at  once  into  the  Italian  way  of  life.  You 
avoid  in  this  way  that  gradual  change  from  one  pure  na- 
tionality to  another,  which  is  eminently  unsatisfactory. 
You  do  not  weary  yourself  with  the  mixed  population  and 
customs  of  those  border  towns  which  bear  about  the  same 
relation  to  Italy  that  Boulogne,  with  its  multitude  of  Eng- 
lish residents,  bears  to  France.  It  was  my  good  fortune 
when  I  first  visited  Italy,  years  ago,  to  make  the  voyage 
from  America  direct  to  the  proud  city  of  Genoa.  Fifty- 
five  weary  days  passed  away  before  the  end  of  the  voyage 
was  reached.  Twenty-six  of  those  days  were  spent  in  bat- 
tling with  a  terrible  north-easter,  before  whose  might  many 
a  better  craft  than  the  one  I  was  in  went  down  into  the  in- 
satiable depths.  My  Italian  anticipations  kept  me  up 
through  all  the  cheerlessness  of  that  time.  The  stormy  sky, 
the  wet,  the  cold,  and  all  the  discomfort  could  not  keep 
from  my  mind's  eye  the  vineyards,  palaces,  chui'ches,  and 
majestic  ruins  which  made  up  the  Italy  I  had  looked  for- 
ward to  from  childhood.  My  first  sight  of  that  romantic 
land  did  somewhat  shock,  I  must  acknowledge,  my  precon- 
ceived notions.  I  was  called  on  deck  early  one  December 
morning  to  see  the  land  which  is  associated  in  most  minds 
with  perpetual  sunshine.  Facing  a  biting,  northerly  blast, 
I  saw  the  maritime  range  of  the  Alps  covered  with  snow 
and  looking  as  relentless  as  arctic  icebergs.  My  disap- 
pointment was  forgotten,  however,  two  mornings  after,  when 
Genoa,  wearing  "  the  beauty  of  the  morning,"  lay  before  our 
weathei'-beaten  bark.  It  was  something  to  remember  to 
my  dying  day  —  that  approach  to  the  city  of  palaces. 
Surrounded  by  its  amphitheatre  of  hills  crested  on  every 


GENOA   AND   FLORENCE.  47 

side  with  heavy  fortifications,  its  palaces,  and  towers,  and 
domes,  and  terraced  gardens  rising  apparently  from  the 
very  edge  of  that  tideless  sea,  there  sat  Genoa,  surpassing 
in  its  splendour  the  wildest  imaginings  of  my  youth,  I  shall 
never  forget  the  thrill  that  ran  through  every  fibre  of  my 
frame,  when  the  sun  rose  above  those  embattled  ridges,  and 
poured  his  flood  of  saffron  glory  over  the  whole  wonderful 
scene,  and  the  bells  from  a  hundred  churches  and  convents 
rang  out  as  cheerily  as  if  the  sunbeams  made  them  musical, 
like  the  statue  in  the  ancient  fable,  and  there  was  no  fur- 
ther need  of  bell  ropes.  The  astonishment  of  Aladdin  when 
he  rubbed  the  lamp  and  saw  the  effects  of  that  operation 
could  not  have  equalled  mine,  when  I  saw  Genoa  put  on 
the  light  and  life  of  day  like  a  garment.  It  was  like  a  scene 
in  a  theatrical  pageant,  or  one  of  the  brilliant  changes  in  a 
great  firework,  so  instantaneous  was  the  transition  from  the 
subdued  light  and  calmness  of  early  morning  to  the  activity 
and  golden  light  of  day.  All  the  discomfort  of  the  eight 
preceding  weeks  was  forgotten  in  the  exultation  of  that 
moment.  I  had  found  the  Italy  of  my  young  dreams,  and 
myrfiappiness  was  complete. 

This  time,  however,  I  entered  Italy  from  the  north.  I 
pass  by  clean,  prosperous-looking  Milan,  with  its  elegant 
churches,  and  its  white-coated  Austrian  soldiers  standing 
guard  in  every  public  place.  I  have  not  a  word  of  lament 
to  utter  at  seeing  a  stranger  force  sustaining  social  order 
there.  It  is  better  that  it  should  be  sustained  by  a  despot- 
ism far  more  cruel  than  that  of  Austria,  than  to  become 
the  prey  of  that  sanguinary  anarchy  which  is  dignified  in 
Europe  with  the  name  of  republicanism.  The  most  abso- 
lute of  all  absolute  monarchies  is  to  be  preferred  to  the  best 
government  that  could  possibly  be  built  upon  such  a  foun- 
dation as  Mazzini's  stiletto.  Far  better  is  the  severest 
military  despotism  than  the  irresponsible  tyranny  of  those 


48  IGUECHEEK. 

who  deny  the  first  principles  of  government  and  common 
morality,  and  who  seem  to  consider  assassination  the  chief 
of  virtues  and  the  most  heroic  of  actions.  I  pass  by  that 
magnificent  cathedral,  with  its  thousands  of  pinnacles  and 
shining  statues  piercing  the  clear  atmosphere  like  the  peaks 
of  a  stupendous  iceberg,  and  its  subterranean  chapel,  glit- 
tering with  precious  metals  and  jewels,  where,  in  a  crystal 
shrine,  repose  the  relics  of  the  great  St.  Charles,  and  the 
lamps  of  gold  and  silver  bum  unceasingly,  and  symbolize 
the  shining  virtues  of  the  self-forgetful  successor  of  St. 
Ambrose,  and  the  glowing  gratitude  of  the  faithful  Milanese 
for  his  devotion  to  the  welfare  of  their  forefathers. 

I  lingered  among  the  attractions  of  Genoa  for  a  few 
days.  I  enjoy  not  only  those  magnificent  palaces  with  their 
spacious  quadrangles,  broad  staircases,  and  sculptured  fa- 
pades,  but  those  narrow,  winding  streets  of  which  three 
quarters  of  the  city  are  composed  —  so  narrow  indeed  that 
a  carriage  never  is  seen  in  them,  and  a  donkey,  pannier- 
laden,  after  the  manner  of  Ali  Baba's  faithful  animal,  com- 
pels you  to  keep  very  close  to  the  buildings.  Genoa  is 
the  very  reverse  of  Philadelphia.  Its  streets  are  as  nar- 
row and  crooked  as  those  of  Philadelphia  are  broad  and 
straight.  The  Quaker  City  was  always  a  wearisome  place 
to  me.  Its  rectangular  avenues  —  so  wide  that  they  afford 
no  protection  from  the  wintry  blast  nor  shelter  from  the 
canicular  sunshine,  and  as  interminable  as  a  tale  in  a  week- 
ly newspaper  —  tire  me  out.  They  make  me  long  for 
something  more  social  and  natural  than  their  straight 
lines.  Man  is  a  gregarious  animal.  It  is  his  nature 
to  snuggify  himself.  But  the  Quaker  affects  a  contempt 
for  snugness,  and  includes  Hogarth's  line  of  beauty 
among  the  worldly  vanities  which  his  religion  obliges  him 
to  shun.  Every  time  I  think  of  Philadelphia  my  disre- 
spect for  the  science  of  geometry  is  increased,  and  I  find 


GENOA    AND    FLORENCE.  41^. 

myself  more  and  more  inclined  to  believe  the  most  unkind 
things 'that  Lord  Macaulay  can  say  about  Mr.  Penn,  its 
founder.  Cherishing  such  sentiments  as  these,  is  it  wonder- 
ful that  I  find  Genoa  a  pleasant  city  ?  I  enjoy  its  gay 
port,  its  thronged  market  place,  its  sumptuous  churches, 
with  gilded  vaults  and  panels,  and  checkered  exteriors,  its 
well-dressed  people,  from  the  bluff  coachman,  who  laughed 
at  ray  attempts  to  understand  the  Genoese  dialect,  to  the 
devout  feminines  in  their  graceful  white  veils,  which  give 
the  whole  city  a  peculiarly  festive  and  nuptial  appearance : 
but  it  must  be  acknowledged,  that  the  up-and-down-stairay 
feature  of  the  town  is  not  grateful  to  my  gouty  feet. 

I  must  not  weary  you,  dear  reader,  with  any  attempts  to 
describe  the  dfUghtful  four  days'  journey  from  Genoa  to 
Florence,  in  a  vettura.  The  Cornice  road,  with  its  steep 
cliffs  or  trim  villas  on  one  side,  and  the  clear  blue  Mediter- 
ranean on  the  other,  —  those  pleasant  old  towns,  pervaded 
with  an  air  of  respectable  antiquity,  Chiavari,  Sestri,  Sar- 
zana,  Spezzia,  with  its  beautiful  gulf,  whose  waters  looked 
80  pure  and  calm  that  it  was  difficult  to  think  that  they 
could  ever  have  swallowed  poor  Percy  Shelley,  and  robbed 
English  literature  of  one  of  its  brightest  ornaments,  —  Pie- 
tra  Santa,  Carrara,  with  its  queer  old  church,  its  quarries> 
its  door-steps  and  window-sills  of  milk-white  marble,  and 
its  throng  of  artists,  —  the  little  marble  city  of  Massa 
Ducale,  nestling  among  the  mountains,  —  the  vast  groves 
of  olives,  whose  ash-coloured  leaves  made  noontide  seem 
like  twilight,  —  all  these  things  would  require  a  great  ex- 
penditure of  time  and  rhetoric,  and  therefore  I  will  not 
even  allude  to  them. 

Neither  will  I  tire  you  with  any  reference  to  my  brief 

sojourn  in  Pisa.     I  will  not  tell  how  delightful  it  was  to 

perambulate  the  clean  streets  of  that  peaceful  city,  —  how 

I  enjoyed  the  view  from  the  bridges,  the  ancient  towers  and 

5 


8^  IGtlECHFIEK. 

domes,  and  the  lofty  palaces,  whose  fair  fronts  are  miiTored 
in  the  soft-flowing  Amo.  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the 
enchantment  produced  by  that  noble  architectural  group, 

—  the  Cathedral,  the  Baptistery,  the  Campanile,  and  the 
Campo  Santo,  —  nor  the  joy  I  felt  on  making  a  closer 
acquaintance  with  that  graceftil  tower,  whose  inexplicable 
dereliction  from  the  perfect  uprightness  which  is  inculcated 
as  a  primary  duty  in  all  similar  structures,  was  made 
familiar  to  me  at  an  early  age,  through  the  medium  of  a 
remarkable  wood-cut  in  my  school  Geography.  I  will  not 
tell  how  I  fatigued  my  sense  with  the  forms-  of  beauty  with 
which  that  glorious  church  is  filled,  —  how  refreshing  its 
holy  quiet  and  subdued  light  were  to  my  travel-worn  spirit, 

—  now  how  the  majestic  cloisters  of  the  Campo  Santo,  with 
their  delicate  traceries,  antique  frescoes,  and  constantly 
varying  light  and  shade,  elevated  and  purified  my  heart  of 
the  sordid  spirit  of  this  mean,  practical  age,  until  I  felt 
that  to  live  amid  such  scenes,  and  to  be  buried  at  last  in 
the  earth  of  Palestine,  under  the  shade  of  those  solemn 
arches,  was  the  only  worthy  object  of  human  ambition. 

I  entered  Florence  late  in  the  afternoon,  under  cover  of 
a  fog  that  would  have  done  credit  to  London  in  the  depths 
of  ;ts  November  nebulosity.  It  was  rather  an  unbecoming 
dress  for  the  style  of  beauty  of  the  Tuscan  capital,  —  that 
mantle  of  chill  vapour,  —  but  it  was  worn  but  a  few  hours, 
and  the  sun  rose  the  next  morning  in  all  his  legitimate 
splendour,  and  darted  his  rays  through  as  clear  and  frosty 
an  atmosphere  as  ever  fell  to  the  lot  of  even  that  favoured 
country.  I  have  once  or  twice  heard  the  epithet  "  beauti- 
ful "  applied  to  this  city ;  indeed,  I  will  not  be  sure  that  I 
have  not  met  with  it  in  some  book  or  other.  It  is,  in  fact, 
the  only  word  that  can  be  used  with  any  propriety  concern 
ing  this  charming  place.  It  is  not  vast  like  Rome,  nor  is 
the  soul  of  its  beholder  saddened  by  the  sight  of  mighty 


GENOA   AND    FLORENCE.  ^ 

ruins,  or  burdened  with  the  weight  of  thousands  of  years 
of  heroic  history.  It  does  not  possess  the  broad  Bay  of 
Naples,  nor  is  it  watched  over  by  a  stupendous  volcano, 
smoking  leisurely  for  want  of  some  better  occupation.  But 
it  lies  in  the  valley  of  the  Arno,  one  of  the  most  harmo- 
nious and  impressive  works  of  art  that  the  world  has  ever 
seen,  surrounded  by  natural  beauties  that  realize  the  most 
ecstatic  dreams  of  poesy. 

Firenze  la  bella  I  Who  can  look  at  her  from  any  of  the 
terraced  hills  that  enclose  her  from  the  rude  world,  and 
deny  her  that  title.'*  That  fertile  plain  which  stretches 
from  her  very  walls  to  the  edge  of  the  horizon  —  those  pic- 
turesque hills,  dotted  with  lovely  villas — those  orchards  and 
vineyards,  in  their  glory  of  gold  and  purple  —  that  river, 
stealing  noiselessly  to  the  sea  —  and  far  away  the  hoary 
peaks  of  the  Apennines,  changing  their  hue  with  every 
hour  of  sun-light,  and  displaying  their  most  gorgeous  robes, 
in  honour  of  the  departing  day,  —  I  pity  the  man  who  can 
look  upon  them  without  a  momentaiy  feeling  of  inspiration. 
The  view  from  Fiesole  is  consolation  enough  for  a  life  of 
disappointment,  and  ought  to  make  all  future  earthly  trials 
seem  as  nothing  to  him  who  is  permitted  to  enjoy  it. 

And  then,  those  domes  and  towers,  so  eloquent  of  the 
genius  of  Gfotto  and  Brunelleschi  and  of  the  public  spirit 
and  earnest  devotion  of  ages  which  modern  ignorance  stig- 
matizes as  "  dark,"  —  who  can  behold  them  without  a  thrill  ? 
The  battlemented  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  —  which 
seems  as  if  it  bad  been  hewn  out  of  solid  rock,  rather  than 
built  up  by  the  patient  labour  of  the  mason  —  looks  down 
upon  the  peaceful  city  with  a  composure  that  seems  almost 
intelligent,  and  makes  you  wonder  whether  it  appeared  the 
same  when  the  signiory  of  Florence  held  their  councils 
under  its  massive  walls,  and  in  those  dark  days  when  the 
tyrannous  factions  of  Guelph  and   Ghibelline  celebrated 


5fi  AGUECHEEK. 

their  bloody  carnival.  The  graceful  Campanile  of  the  ca- 
thedral, with  its  coloured  marbles,  seems  too  much  like  a 
mantel  ornament  to  be  exposed  to  the  changes  of  the 
weather.  Amid  the  other  domes  and  towers  of  the  city  rises 
the  vast  dome  of  the  cathedral,  the  forerunner  of  that  of  St. 
Peter's,  and  almost  its  equal.  It  appears  to  be  conscious  of 
its  superiority  to  the  neighbouring  architectural  monuments, 
and  merits  Hallam's  description  —  "an  emblem  of  the 
Catholic  hierarchy  under  its  supreme  head ;  like  Rome 
itself,  imposing,  unbroken,  unchangeable,  radiating  in  equal 
expansion  to  every  part  of  the  earth,  and  directing  its  con- 
vergent curves  to  heaven." 

There  is  no  city  in  the  world  so  full  of  memories  of  the 
middle  ages  as  Florence.  Its  very  palaces,  with  their 
heavily  barred  basement  windows,  look  as  if  they  were  built 
to  stand  a  siege.  Their  sombre  walls  are  in  strong  con- 
trast with  the  bloom  and  sunshine  which  we  naturally  asso- 
ciate with  the  valley  of  the  Arno.  Their  magnificent  pro- 
portions and  the  massiveness  of  their  construction  oppress 
you  with  recollections  of  the  warlike  days  in  which  they 
were  erected.  You  wonder,  as  you  stand  in  their  court- 
yards, or  perambulate  the  streets  darkened  by  their  over- 
hanging cornices,  what  has  become  of  all  the  cavaliers  ;  and 
if  a  gentleman  in  "  complete  steel "  should  lift  his  visor  to 
accost  you,  it  would  not  startle  you  so  much  as  to  hear  two 
English  tourists  with  the  inevitable  red  guide-books  under 
their  arms,  conversing  about  the  "  Grand  Juke."  Wherever 
one  may  turn  his  steps  in  Florence,  he  meets  with  some 
object  of  beauty  or  historical  interest ;  yet  among  all  these 
charms  and  wonders  there  is  one  building  upon  which  my 
eyes  and  mind  are  never  tired  of  feeding.  The  Palazzo 
Riccardi,  the  cradle  of  the  great  Medici  family,  is  not  less 
impressive  in  its  architecture  than  in  its  historic  associations. 
Its  black  walls  have  a  greater  charm  for  me  than  the  varie- 


GENOA   AND   FLORENCE.  53 

gated  marbles  of  the  Duomo.  It  was  built  by  the  great 
Cosmo  de'  Medici,  and  was  the  home  of  that  family  of 
merchant  princes  in  the  most  glorious  period  of  its  history, 
when  a  grateful  people  delighted  to  render  to  its  members 
that  homage  which  is  equally  honourable  to  "  him  that  gives 
and  him  that  takes."  The  genius  of  Michel  Angelo  and 
Donatello  is  impressed  upon  it.  It  was  within  those  lofty 
halls  that  Cosmo  and  his  grandson,  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent, 
welcomed. pontiffs  and  princes,  and  the  illustrious  but  unti- 
tled nobility  of  literature  and  art,  which  was  the  boast  of 
their  age.  The  ancient  glories  of  the  majestic  pile  are  kept 
in  mind  by  an  inscription  which  greets  him  who  enters  it 
with  an  exhortation  to  "  reverence  with  gratitude  the  an- 
cient mansion  of  the  Medici,  in  which  not  merely  so  many 
illustrious  men,  but  "Wisdom  herself  abode  —  a  house  which 
was  the  nurse  of  revived  learning." 

I  wonder  whether  any  one  ever  was  tired  of  strolling 
about  these  old  streets  and  squares.  At  my  time  of  life, 
walking  is  not  particularly  agreeable,  even  if  it  be  not  inter- 
fered with  by  either  of  those  foes  to  active  exercise  and 
grace  of  movement  —  rheumatism  or  gout;  but  I  must 
acknowledge  that  I  have  found  such  pleasure  in  rambling 
through  the  familiar  streets  of  this  delightful  city,  that  I 
have  taken  no  note  of  bodily  fatigue,  and  have  forgotten  the 
crutch  or  cane  which  is  my  inseparable  companion.  It  is 
all  the  same  to  me  whether  I  walk  about  the  streets,  or 
loiter  in  the  Boboli  Gardens,  or  listen  to  the  delicious  music 
of  the  full  military  band  that  plays  daily  for  an  hour  before 
sunset  under  the  shade  of  the  Cascine.  They  all  afford  me 
a  kind  of  vague  pleasure  —  very  much  that  sort  of  satisfac- 
tion which  springs  from  hearing  a  cat  purr,  or  from  watch- 
ing the  fitful  blaze  of  a  wood  fire.  I  have  no  fondness  for 
jewelry,  and  the  great  Kohinoor  diamond  and  all  the  crown 
jewels  of  Russia  could  not  invest  respectable  uselessness  or 
5» 


54  AGUECHEEK. 

aristocratic  vice  with  any  beauty  for  me,  nor  add  any  charm 
to  a  bright,  intelligent  face,  such  as  lights  up  many  a  home 
in  this  selfish  world  ;  yet  I  have  spent  hours  in  looking  at 
the  stalls  on  the  Jeweller's  Bridge,  and  enjoying  the  covetous 
looks  bestowed  by  so  many  passers-by  upon  their  glittering 
contents. 

There  are  some  excellent  bookstalls  here,  and  I  have 
renewed  the  joys  of  past  years  and  the  memory  of  Pater- 
noster Row,  Fleet  Street,  Holborn,  the  Strand,  and  of  the 
quays  of  Paris,  in  the  inspection  of  their  stock.  I  have  a 
strong  affection  for  bookstalls,  and  had  much  rather  buy  a 
book  at  one  than  in  a  shop.  In  the  first  place  it  would  be 
cheaper  ;  in  the  second  place  it  would  be  a  little  worn,  and 
I  should  become  the  possessor,  not  only  of  the  volume,  but 
of  its  associations  with  other  lovers  of  books  who  turned 
over  its  leaves,  reading  here  and  there,  envying  the  future 
purchaser.  For  books,  so  long  as  they  are  well  used, 
increase  in  value  as  they  grow  in  age.  Sir  William  Jones's 
assertion,  that  "  the  best  monument  that  can  be  erected  to  a 
man  of  literary  talents  is  a  good  edition  of  his  works,"  is 
not  to  be  denied ;  but  who  would  think  of  reading,  for  the 
enjoyment  of  the  thing,  a  modem  edition  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  or  Izaak  Walton  ?  Who  would  wish  to  read 
Hamlet  in  a  volume  redolent  of  printers'  ink  and  binders' 
glue  ?  Who  would  read  a  clean  new  copy  of  Robinson 
Crusoe  when  he  might  have  one  that  had  seen  service  in  a 
circulating  library,  or  had  been  well  thumbed  by  several 
generations  of  adventure-loving  boys  ?  A  book  is  to  me. 
like  a  hat  or  coat  —  a  very  uncomfortable  thing  until  tiie 
newness  has  been  worn  off. 

It  is  in  the  churches  of  Florence  that  my  enthusiasm 
reaches  its  meridian.  This  solemn  cathedral,  with  its  richly 
dight  windows,  —  whose  warm  hues  must  have  been  stolen 
from  the  palette  of  Titian  or  Tintoretto,  —  makes  me  forget 


GENOA    AxND    FLORENCE.  65 

all  earthly  hopes  and  sorrows ;  and  the  majestic  Santa 
Maria  Novella  and  San  Lorenzo,  with  their  peaceful  clois- 
ters and  treasures  of  literature  and  art,  appeal  strongly  to 
my  religious  sensibilities,  while  they  completely  satisfy  my 
taste.  And  then  Santa  Croce,  solemn,  not  merely  as  a 
place  of  worship,  but  as  the  repository  of  the  dust  of  many 
of  those  illustrious  men  whose  genius  illumined  the  world 
during  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries  !  I  have  en- 
joyed Santa  Croce  particularly,  because  I  have  seen  more 
of  the  religious  life  of  the  Florentine  people  there.  For 
more  than  a  week  I  have  been  there  every  evening,  just 
after  sunset,  when  the  only  light  that  illuminated  those  an- 
cient arches  came  from  the  high  altar,  which  appeared  like 
a  vision  of  heaven  in  the  midst  of  the  thickest  darkness  of 
earth.  The  nave  and  aisles  of  that  vast  edifice  were 
thronged:  men,  women,  and  children  were  kneeling  upon 
that  pavement  which  contains  the  records  of  so  much  good- 
ness and  greatness.  I  have  heard  great  choirs ;  I  have 
been  thrilled  by  the  wondrous  power  of  voices  that  seemed 
too  much  like  those  of  angels  for  poor  humanity  to  listen  to ; 
but  I  have  never  before  been  so  overwhelmed  as  by  the 
•hearty  music  of  that  vast  multitude. 

The  galleries  of  art  need  another  volume  and  an  abler 
pen  than  mine.  Free  to  the  people  as  the  sunlight  and  the 
shade  of  the  public  gardens,  they  make  an  American  blush 
to  think  of  the  niggardly  spirit  that  prevails  in  the  country 
which  he  would  fain  persuade  himself  is  the  most  favoured 
of  all  earthly  abodes.  The  Academy,  the  Pitti,  the  Uffizii, 
make  you  think  that  life  is  too  short,  and  that  art  is  indeed 
long.  You  wish  that  you  had  more  months  to  devote  to 
them  than  you  have  days.  Great  as  is  the  pleasure  that  1 
have  found  in  them,  I  have  found  myself  lingering  more 
fondly  in  the  cloisters  and  corridors  of  San  Marco  than 
amid  the  wonderful  works  that  deck  the  walls  of  the  pal- 


56  AOUECflEEK. 

aces.  The  pencil  of  Beato  Angelico  has  consecrated  that 
dead  plastering,  and  given  to  it  a  divine  life.  The  rapt 
devotion  and  holy  tranquillity  of  those  faces  reflect  the 
glory  of  the  eternal  world.  I  ask  no  more  convincing 
proof  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  than  the  fact  that 
those  forms  of  beauty  and  holiness  were  conceived  and 
executed  by  a  mortal.  • 

It  is  enough  to  excite  the  indignation  of  any  reflective 
Englishman  or  American  to  visit  Florence,  and  compare  — 
or  perhaps  I  ought  rather  to  say  contrast  —  the  facts  which 
force  themselves  upon  his  attention,  with  the  prejudices 
implanted  in  his  mind  by  early  education.  Surely,  he  has 
a  right  to  be  astonished,  and  may  be  excused  if  he  indulges 
in  a  little  honest  anger,  when  he  looks  for  the  first  time  at 
the  masterpieces  of  art  which  had  their  origin  in  those  ages 
which  he  has  been  taught  to  consider  a  period  of  ignorance 
and  barbarism.  He  certainly  obtains  a  new  idea  of  the 
"  barbarism  "  of  the  middle  ages,  when  he  visits  the  benev- 
olent institutions  which  they  have  bequeathed  to  our  times, 
and  when  he  sees  the  admirable  working  of  the  Compa- 
gnia  della  Misericordia,  which  unites  all  classes  of  society, 
from  the  grand  duke  to  his  humblest  subject,  in  the  bond§ 
of  religion  and  philanthropy.  He  may  be  pardoned,  too,  if 
he  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  the  liberal  arts  were  not 
entirely  neglected  in  the  age  that  produced  a  Dante  and  a 
Petrarch,  a  Cimabue  and  a  Giotto,  —  not  to  mention  a  host 
of  other  names,  which  may  not  shine  so  brightly  as  these, 
but  are  alike  superior  to  temporal  accidents,  —  and  he  can- 
not be  considered  unreasonable  if  he  refuses  to  believe  that 
the  ages  which  witnessed  the  establishment  of  universities 
like  those  of  Paris,  Oxford,  Cambridge,  Prague,  Bologna, 
Salamanca,  Vienna,  Ferrara,  Ingolstadt,  Louvain,  Leipsic, 
&c,  were  quite  so  deeply  sunk  in  darkness,  or  were  held 
in  an  intellectual  bondage  so  utterly  hopeless,  as  the  eulo- 


GENOA   AND    FLORENCE.  57 

gists  of  the  nineteenth  century  would  persuade  him.  The 
monuments  of  learning,  art,  and  benevolence,  with  which 
Florence  is  filled,  will  convince  any  thinking  man  that 
tho.-e  who  speak  of  the  times  I  have  alluded  to  as  the 
"  dark  ages,"  mean  thereby  the  ages  concerning  which  they 
are  in  the  dark;  and  admirably  exemplify  in  their  own 
shallow  self-sufficiency  the  ignorance  they  would  impute  to 
the  ages  when  learning  and  all  good  arts  were  the  hand- 
maids of  religion. 


ANCIENT  ROME. 

The  moment  in  which  one  takes  his  first  look  at  Rome 
is  an  epoch  in  his  life.  Even  if  his  education  should  have 
been  a  most  illiberal  one,  and  he  himself  should  be  as 
strenuous  an  opponent  of  pontifical  prerogatives  as  John  of 
Leyden  or  Dr.  Dowling,  he  is  sure  to  be,  for  the  time,  im- 
bued in  some  measure  with  the  feelings  of  a  pilgrim.  The 
sight  of  that  city  which  has  exercised  such  a  mighty  influ- 
ence on' the  world,  almost  from  its  very  foundation,  fills  his 
mind  with  "  troublings  of  strange  joy."  His  vague  notions 
of  ancient  history  assume  a  more  distinct  form.  The 
twelve  Caesars  pass  before  his  mind's  eye  like  the  spectral 
kings  before  the  Scotch  usurper.  The  classics  which  he 
used  to  neglect  so  shamefully  at  school,  the  historical  les- 
sons which  he  thoughtr  so  dull,  have  been  endowed  with  life 
and  interest  by  that  one  glance  of  his  astonished  eye.  But 
if  he  loved  the  classics  in  his  youth,  —  if  the  wanderings 
of  -^neas  and  the  woes  of  Dido  charmed  instead  of  tiring 
him,  —  if  "  Livy's  pictured  page,"  the  polished  periods  of 
Sallust  and  Tacitus,  and  the  mighty  eloquence  of  Cicero, 
were  to  him  a  mine  of  delight  rather  than  a  task,  —  how 
does  his  eye  glisten  with  renewed  youth,  and  his  heart 
swell  as  his  old  boyish  enthusiasm  is  once  more  kindled 
within  it !  He  feels  that  he  has  reached  the  goal  to  which 
his  heart  and  mind  were  turned  during  his  purest  and  most 
unselfish  years ;  and  if  he  were  as  unswayed  by  human 
respect  as  he  was  then,  he  would  kneel  down  with  the  travel- 
worn  pilgrims   by  the  Avayside  to  give  utterance  to  his 

(58) 


ANCIENT  ROME.  ^  69 

gratitude,  and  to  greet  the  queen  city  of  the  world :  Salve, 
magna  parens  ! 

I  shall  not  easily  forget  the  cloudless  afternoon  when  I 
first  took  that  long,  wearisome  ride  from  Civita  Vecchia 
to  Rome.  There  was  no  railway  in  those  days,  as  there 
is  now,  and  the  diligance  was  of  so  rude  and  uncomfort- 
able a  'make  that  I  half  suspected  it  to  be  the  one  upon 
the  top  of  which  Hannibal  is  said  to  have  crossed  the 
Alps,  (summd  diligentid.)  I  shared  the  coupe  with  two 
other  sufferers,  and  was,  like  them,  so  fatigued  that  it 
seemed  as  if  a  celestial  vision  would  be  powerless  to  make 
me  forgetful  of  my  aching  joints,  when  (after  a  laborious 
pull  up  a  hill  which  might  be  included  among  the  "  ever- 
lasting hills  "  spoken  of  in  holy  writ)  our  long-booted  pos- 
tilion turned  his  expressive  face  towards  us,  and  banished 
all  our  weariness  by  exclaiming,  as  he  pointed  into  the  blue 
distance  with  his  short  whip-handle,  "  Ecco  !  Roma  !  San 
Pietro  !  " 

A  single  glance  of  the  eye  served  to  overcome  all  our 
fatigue.  There  lay  the  world's  capital,  crowned  by  the 
mighty  dome  of  the  Vatican  basilica,  and  we  were  every 
moment  drawing  nearer  to  it.  It  was  evening  before  we 
found  ourselves  staring  at  those  dark  walls  which  have 
withstood  so  many  sieges,  and  heard  the  welcome  demand 
for  passports,  which  informed  us  that  we  had  reached  the 
gate  of  the  city. 

I  was  really  in  Rome,  —  I  was  in  that  city  hallowed  by 
so  many  classical,  historical,  and  sacred  associations,  —  and 
it  all  seemed  to  me  like  a  confused  dream.  Twice,  before 
the  diligence  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  inside  the  gate, 
I  had  pinched  myself  to  ascertain  whether  I  was  really 
awake ;  and  even  after  I  passed  through  the  lofty  col- 
onnade of  St.  Peter's,  and  had  gazed  at  the  front  of  the 
church  and  the  vast  square  which  art  has  made  familiar  to 


60  AGDECHEEK. 

every  one,  and  had  seen  the  fountains  with  the  moonbeams 
flashing  in  their  silvery  spray,  I  feared  lest  something 
should  interrupt  my  dream,  and  I  should  wake  to  find  my- 
self in  my  snug  bedroom  at  home,  wondering  at  the  weak- 
ness which  allowed  me  to  be  seduced  into  the  eating  of  a 
bit  of  cheese  the  evening  before.  It  was  not  so,  however ; 
no  disorganizing  cheese  had  interfered  with  my  digestion ; 
it  was  no  dream ;  and  I  was  really  in  Rome.  I  slept 
soundly  when  I  reached  my  hotel,  for  I  felt  sure  that  no 
hostile  Brennus  lay  in  wait  to  disturb  the  city's  peace,  and 
the  grateful  hardness  of  my  bed  convinced  me  that  all  the 
geese  of  the  capital  had  not  been  killed,  if  the  enemy  should 
effect  an  entrance. 

There  are  few  people  who  love  Rome  at  first  sight.  The 
ruins,  that  bear  witness  to  her  grandeur  in  the  days  of  her 
worldly  supremacy,  oppress  you  at  first  with  an  inexpres- 
sible sadness.  The  absence  of  any  thing  like  the  business 
enterprise  and  energy  of  this  commercial  age  makes  Eng- 
lish and  American  people  long  at  first  for  a  little  of  the 
bustle  and  roar  of  Broadway  and  the  Strand.  The*small 
paving  stones,  which  make  the  feet  of  those  who  are  unac- 
customed to  them  ache  severely,  the  brick  and  stone 
floors  of  the  houses,  and  the  lack  of  the  little  comforts  of 
modern  civilization,  render  Rome  a  wearisome  place,  until 
one  has  caught  its  spirit.  Little  does  he  think  who  for  the 
first  time  gazes  on  those  gray,  mouldering  walls,  on  which 
"dull  time  feeds  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand,"  or 
walks  those  streets  in  which  the  past  and  present  are  so 
strangely  commingled,  —  little  does  he  realize  how  dear 
those  scenes  will  one  day  be  to  him.  He  cannot  foresee 
the  regret  with  which  he  will  leave  those  things  that  seem 
too  common  and  familiar  to  deserve  attention,  nor  the 
glowing  enthusiasm  which  their  mention  will  inspire  in 
after  years ;  and  he  would  smile  incredulously  if  any  one 


ANCIENT  ROME.  61 

were  to  predict  to  him  that  his  heart,  in  after  times,  will 
swell  with  homesick  longings  as  he  recalls  the  memory  of 
that  ancient  city,  and  that  he  will  one  day  salute  it  from 
afar  as  his  second  home. 

I  make  no  claims  to  antiquarian  knowledge  ;  for  I  do  not 
love  antiquity  for  itself  alone.  It  is  only  by  force  of  associ- 
ation that  antiquity  has  any  charms  fdr  me.  The  pyramids 
of  Egypt  would  awaken  my  respect,  not  so  much  by  their 
age  or  size,  as  by  the  remembrance  of  the  momentous 
scenes  which  have  been  enacted  in  their  useless  and  un- 
graceful presence.  Show  me  a  scroll  so  ancient  that  human 
science  can  obtain  no  key  to  the  mysteries  locked  up  in  the 
strange  figures  inscribed  upon  it,  and  you  would  move  me  but 
little.  But  place  before  me  one  of  those  manuscripts  (filled 
with  scholastic  lore,  instinct  with  classic  eloquence,  or  lu- 
minous with  the  word  of  eternal  life)  which  have  come  down 
to  us  from  those  nurseries  of  learning  and  piety,  the  monas- 
teries of  the  middle  ages,  and  you  fill  me  with  the  intensest 
enthusiasm.  There  is  food  for  the  imagination  hidden 
under  those  worm-eaten  covers  and  brazen  clasps.  I  see 
in  those  fair  pages  something  more  than  the  results  of  the 
patient  toil  which  perpetuated  those  precious  truths.  From 
those  carefully  penned  lines,  and  brilliant  initial  letters,  the 
pale,  thoughtful  face  of  the  transcriber  looks  upon  me  —  his 
contempt  of  worldly  ambition  and  sacrifice  of  human  conso- 
lations are  reflected  there  —  and  from  the  quiet  of  his 
austere  cell,  he  seems  to  dart  from  his  serene  eyes  a  glance 
of  patient  reproach  at  the  worldlier  and  more  modern  age 
which  reaps  the  fruit  of  his  labour,  and  repays  him  by  slan- 
dering his  character.  Show  me  a  building  whose  stupendous 
masonry  seems  the  work  of  Titan  hands,  but  whose  history 
is  lost  in  the  twilight  of  the  ages,  so  that  no  record  remains 
of  a  time  when  it  was  any  thing  but  an  antique  enigma,  and 
ita  massive  columns  and  Cyclopean  proportions  will  not 
6 


62  AGUECHEEK. 

touch  me  so  nearly  as  the  stone  in  Florence  where  Dante 
used  to  stand  and  gaze  upon  that  dome  which  Michel 
Angelo  said  he  would  not  imitate,  and  could  not  excel. 

Feeling  thus  about  antiquities,  I  need  not  say  that  those 
of  Rome,  so  crowned  with  the  most  thrilling  historical  and 
personal  associations,  are  not  wanting  in  charms  for  me. 
Yet  I  do  not  claim  to  be  an  antiquarian.  It  is  all  one  to 
me  whether  the  column  of  Phocas  be  forty  feet  high  or 
sixty,  —  whether  a  ruin  on  the  Palatine  that  fascinates  me 
by  its  richness  and  grandeur,  was  once  a  Temple  of  Minerva 
or  of  Jupiter  Stator  ;  or  whether  its  foundations  are  of  trav- 
ertine or  tufa.  I  abhor  details.  My  enjoyment  of  a  land- 
scape would  be  at  an  end  if  I  were  called  upon  to  count  the 
mild-eyed  cattle  that  contribute  so  much  to  its  picturesque- 
ness ;  and  I  have  no  wish  to  disturb  my  appreciation  of  the 
spirit  of  a  place  consecrated  by  ages  o^  heroic  history,  by 
entertaining  any  of  the  learned  conjectures  of  professional 
antiquarians.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that  lam  stand- 
ing on  the  spot  where  Romulus  built  his  straw-thatched 
palace,  and  his  irreverent  brother  leaped  over  the  walls  of 
the  future  mistress  of  the  nations.  Standing  in  the  midst 
of  the  relics  of  the  grandeur  of  imperial  Rome,  the  whole  of 
her  wonderful  history  is  constantly  acting  over  again  in  my 
mind.  The  stern  simplicity  of  those  who  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  her  greatness,  the  patriotic  daring  of  those  who  ex- 
tended her  power,  the  wisdom  of  those  who  terminated 
civil  strife  by  compelling  the  divided  citizens  to  unite 
against  a  foreign  foe,  are  all  present  to  me.  In  that  august 
place  where  Cicero  pleaded,  gazing  upon  that  mount  where 
captive  kings  did  homage  to  the  masters  of  the  world,  your^ 
mere  antiquarian,  with  his  pestilent  theories  and  measure- 
ments, seems  to  me  little  better  than  a  profaner.  When  I 
see  such  a  one  scratching  about  the  base  of  some  majestic 
column  in  the  Forum  (although  I  cannot  but  be  grateful  to 


ANCIENT     IlOr.IE.  68 

those  whose  researches  have  developed  the  greatness  of  the 
imperial  city,)  1  do  long  to  interrupt  him,  and  remind  him 
that  his  "  tread  is  on  an  empire's  dust."  I  wi^h  to  recall 
him  from  the  petty  details  in  which  he  delights,  and  have 
him  enjoy  with  me  the  grandeur  and  dignity  of  the  whole 
scene. 

The  triumphal  arches,  —  the  monuments  of  the  cultiva- 
tion of  those  remote  ages,  no  less  than  of  the  power  of  the 
.state  which  erected  them,  —  the  memorials  of  the  luxury 
that  paved  the  way  to  the  decline  of  that  power  —  all  these 
things  impress  me  with  the  thought  of  the  long  years  that 
intervened  between  that  splendour  and  the  times  when  the 
seat  of  universal  empire  was  inhabited  only  by  shepherds 
and  their  flocks.  It  wearies  me  to  think  of  the  long  centu- 
ries of  human  effort  that  were  required  to  bring  Rome  to 
its  culminating  point  of  glory ;  and  it  affords  me  a  melan- 
choly kind  of  amusement  to  contrast  the  spirit  of  those  who 
laid  the  deep  and  strong  foundations  of  that  prosperity  and 
power,  with  that  of  some  modern  sages,  to  whom  a  hundred 
years  are  a  respectable  antiquity,  and  who  seem  to  think 
that  commercial  enterprise  and  the  will  of  a  fickle  populace 
form  as  secure  a  basis  for  a  state  as  private  virtue,  and  the 
principle  of  obedience  to  law.  I  know  a  country,  yet  in  the 
first  century  of  its  national  existence,  full  of  hope  and  am- 
bition, and  possessing  advantages  such  as  never  before  fell 
to  the  lot  of  a  young  empire,  but  lacking  in  those  powers 
which  made  Rome  what  she  was.  If  that  country,  "  the 
newest  born  of  nations,  the  latest  hope  of  mankind',"  which 
has  so  rapidly  risen  to  a  power  surpassing  in  extent  that  of 
ancient  Rome,  and  bears  within  itself  the  elements  of  the 
decay  that  ruined  the  old  empire,  —  wealth,  vice,  corrup- 
tion, —  if  she  could  overcome  the  vain  notion  tliat  hers  is 
an  exceptional  case,  and  that  she  is  not  subject  to  that  great 
law  of  nature  which  makes  personal  virtue  the  corner-stone 


64  AGUECHEEK. 

of  national  stability  and  the  lack  of  that^  its  bane,  and 
could  look  calmly  upon  the  remains  of  old  Rome's  grandeur, 
she  might  learn  a  great  lesson.  Contemplating  the  patient 
formation  of  that  far-reaching  dominion  until  it  found  its 
perfect  consummation  in  the  age  of  Augustus,  (^TanttB  molts 
erat  Romanam  condere  gentem,)  she  would  see  that  true 
national  greatness  is  not  "  the  hasty  product  of  a  day  ; "  that 
demagogues  and  adventurers,  M'ho  have  made  politics  their 
trade,  are  not  the  architects  of  that  greatness ;  and  that  the 
parchment  on  which  the  constitution  and  laws  of  a  country 
are  written,  might  as  well  be  used  for  drum-heads  when 
reverence  and  obedience  have  departed  from  the  hearts  of 
its  people. 

A  gifted  representative  of  a  name  which  is  classical  in 
^1/  the  history  of  the  drama,  some  years  ago  gave  to  the  world 
a  journal  of  her  residence  in  Rome.  She  called  her  volume 
"  A  Year  of  Consolation  "  —  a  title  as  true  as  it  is  poetical. 
Indeed  I  know  of  nothing  more  soothing  to  the  spirit  than 
a  walk  through  these  ancient  streets,  or  an  hour  of  medita- 
tion amid  these  remains  of  fallen  majesty.  To  stand  in  the 
arena  of  the  Coliseum  in  the  noonday  glare,  or  when  those 
ponderous  arches  cast  their  lengthened  shadows  on  the  spot 
where  the  first  Roman  Christians  were  saqfificed  to  make  a 
holiday  for  a  brutalized  populace,  —  to  muse  in  the  Pan- 
theon, that  changeless  temple  of  a  living,  and  monument  of 
a  dead,  worship,  and  reflect  on  the  many  generations  that 
have  passed  beneath  its  majestic  portico  from  the  days  of 
Agrippa  to  our  own,  —  to  listen  to  the  birds  that  sing  amid 
the  shrubbery  which  decks  the  stupendous  arches  of  the 
Baths  of  Caracalla,  —  to  be  overwhelmed  by  the  stillness  of 
the  Campagna  while  the  eye  is  filled  with  that  rolling  ver- 
dure which  seems  in  the  hazy  distance  like  the  waves  of 
the  unquiet  sea  —  what  are  all  these  things  but  consolations 
in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word?     What  is  the  bitterest 


ANCIENT   ROME.  65 

grief  that  ever  pierced  a  human  heart  through  a  long  life 
of  sorrows,  compared  to  the  dumb  woe  of  that  mighty  deso- 
lation ?  "What  are  our  brief  sufferings,  when  they  are 
brought  into  the  august  presence  of  a  mourner  who  has 
seen  her  hopes  one  by  one  taken  fi-om  her,  through  centu- 
ries of  war  and  rapine,  neglect  and  silent  decay  ? 

Among  all  of  Rome's  monuments  of  antiquity,  there  are 
few  that  impress  me  so  strangely  as  those  old  Egyptian 
obelisks,  the  trophies  of  the  victorious  emperors,  which  the 
pontiffs  have  made  to  contribute  so  greatly  to  the  adorn- 
ment of  their  capital.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  turn  a 
corner  of  one  of  the  principal  streets  of  the  city  without 
seeing  one  of  these  peculiar  shafts  that  give  a  fine  finish  to 
the  perspective.  If  their  cold  granite  forms  could  speak, 
what  a  strange  history  they  would  reveal !  They  were 
witnesses  of  the  achievements  of  a  power  which  reached  its 
noonday  splendour  centuries  before  the  shepherd  Faustulus 
took  the  foundling  brothers  into  his  cottage  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tiber.  The  civilization  of  which  they  are  the  relics 
had  declined  before  the  Roman  kings  inaugurated  that 
which  afterwards  reclaimed  all  Europe  from  the  barbarians. 
Yet  there  they  stand  as  grim  and  silent  as  if  they  had  but 
yesterday  been  rescued  from  the  captivity  of  the  native 
quarry,  and  had  never  geen  a  nobler  form  than  those  of  the 
dusty  artisans  who  wrought  them  —  as  dull  and  unimpres- 
sible  as  some  of  the  stupid  tourists  whom  I  see  daily  gazing 
upon  these  glorious  monuments,  and  seeing  only  so  much 
brick  and  stone. 
6* 


MODERN  ROME. 

Acknowledging  as  I  do  the  charms  which  the  Rome 
of  antiquity  possesses  for  me,  it  must  still  be  confessed  that 
the  Rome  of  the  present  time  enchants  me  with  attractions 
scarcely  less  potent.  Religion  has  consecrated  many  of  the 
spots  which  history  had  made  venerable,  and  thus,  added  a 
new  lustre  to  their  associations.  I  turn  from  the  broken 
columns  and  gray  mouldering  walls  of  old  Rome  to  those 
fanes,  "so  ancient,  yet  so  new,"  in  which  the  piety  of  cen- 
turies has  found  its  enduring  expression.  Beneath  their 
sounding  arches,  by  the  mild  light  of  the  lamps  that  burn 
unceasingly  around  their  shrines,  who  would  vex  his  brain 
with  antiquarian  lore  ?  We  may  notice  that  the  pavement 
is  worn  away  by  the  multitudes  which  have  been  drawn 
thither  by  curiosity  or  devotion ;  but  we  feel  that  Heaven's 
chronology  is  not  an  affair  of  months  and  years,  and  that 
Peter  and  Paul,  Gregory  and  Leo,  are  not  mere  personages 
in  a  drama  upon  the  first  acts  of  which  the  curtain  long 
since  descended.  Who  thinks  of  antiquity  while  he  inhabits 
that  world  of  art  which  Rome  encloses  within  her  walls  ? 
Those  are  not  the  triumphs  of  a  past  age  alone  ;  they  are 
the  triumphs  of  to-day.  The  Apollo's  bearing  is  not  less 
manly,  its  step  not  less  elastic,  than  it  was  in  that  remote 
age  when  its  unknown  sculptor  threw  aside  his  chisel  and 
gazed  upon  his  finished  work.  To-day's  sunshine  is  not 
more  clear  and  golden  than  that  which  glows  in  the  land- 
scapes of  Claude  Lorraine,  though  he  who  thus  made  the 
sunbeams  his  servants  has  been  sleeping  for  nearly  two 
centuries  in  the  dusty  vaults  of  Trinitd  de^  Monti.     Were 

(6G) 


MODERN  ROME.  6T 

Raphael's  deathless  faces  more  real  while  he  was  living 
than  they  are  now?  Were  Gilido's  and  Domenichino's 
triumphs  more  worthy  of  admiration  while  the  paint  was 
wet  upon  them?  or  were  the  achievements  of  that  giant  of 
art,  Michel  Angelo,  ever  more  wonderful  than  now  ?  No  ; 
these  great  works  take  no  nottf  of  time,  and  confer  upon 
the  city  which  contains  them  something  of  their  own  im- 
mortality. 

I  have  heard  people  regret  that  so  many  of  our  artists 
should  expatriate  themselves,  and  spend  their  lives  in 
Rome  or  Florence.  To  me,  however,  nothing  seems  more 
natural ;  and  if  I  were  a  painter,  or  a  sculptor,  I  feel  cer- 
tain that  I  should  share  the  common  weakness  of  the  pro- 
fession for  a  place  of  residence  in  harmony  with  my  art. 
What  sympathy  can  a  true  artist  feel  with  a  state  of  society 
in  which  he  is  regarded  by  nine  people  out  of  ten  as  a  use- 
less member,  because  he  does  not  directly  aid  in  the  pro- 
duction of  a  given  quantity  of  grain  or  of  cloth  ?  Every 
stroke  of  his  brush,  every  movement  of  his  hands  in  mould- 
ing the  obedient  clay,  is  a  protest  against  the  low,  mean, 
materialistic  views  of  life  which  prevail  among  us ;  and  it 
is  too  much  to  ask  of  any  man  that  he  shall  spend  his  days 
in  trying  to  live  peaceably  in  an  enemy's  camp.  When 
figs  and  dates  become  common  articles  of  food  in  Lapland, 
and  the  bleak  sides  of  the  liills  of  New  Hampshire  are 
adorned  with  the  graceful  palm  tree  and  the  luxuriant 
foliage  of  the  tropics,  you  may  expect  art  to  flourish  in  a 
community  whose  god  is  commerce,  and  whose  chief  reli- 
gious duty  is  money-getting. 

Truly  the  life  of  an  artist  in  Rome  is  about  as  near  the 
perfection  of  earthly  happiness  as  is  commonly  vouchsafed 
to  mortal  man.  The  tone  of  society,  and  all  the  surround- 
ings of  the  artist,  are  so  congenial  that  no  poverty  nor  pri- 
vation  can  seriously  interfere  with   them.     The  streets, 


68  IGUECHEEK. 

with  their  architectural  marvels,  the  trim  gardens  and  pic- 
turesque cloisters  of  the  old  religious  establishments,  the 
magnificent  villas  of  the  neighbourhood  of  the  city,  and 
the  vast,  mysterious  Campagna,  with  its  gigantic  aqueducts 
and  its  purple  atmosphere,  and  those  glorious  galleries 
which  at  the  same  time  gratify  the  taste  of  the  artist  and 
feed  his  ambition,  —  these  are  things  which  are  as  free  to 
him  as  the  blessed  sunlight  or  the  water  that  sparkles  in  the 
countless  fountains  of  the  Holy  City.  I  do  not  wonder 
that  artists  who  have  lived  any  considerable  time  in  Rome 
are  discontented  with  the  feverish  restlessness  of  our  Amer- 
ican way  of  life,  and  that,  after  "  stifling  the  mighty  hunger 
of  the  heart "  through  two  or  three  wearisome  years  in  our 
western  world,  they  turn  to  Rome  as  to  a  fond  mother,  upon 
whose  breast  they  may  find  that  peace  which  they  had  ebe- 
where  sought  in  vain. 

The  churches  of  Rome  impress  me  in  a  way  which  1 
have  never  heard  described  by  any  other  person.  I  do  not 
speak  of  St.  Petet's,  (that  "  noblest  temple  that  human  skill 
ever  raised  to  the  honour  of  the  Creator,")  nor  do  I  refer 
to  those  other  magnificent  basilicas  in  which  the  Christian 
glories  of  eighteen  centuries  sit  enthroned.  These  have  a 
lignity  and  majesty  peculiarly  their  own,  and  the  most 
thoughtless  cannot  tread  their  ancient  pavement  without 
being  for  the  time  subdued  into  awe  and  veneration.  But 
the  parish  churches  of  Rome,  the  churches  of  the  various 
religious  orders  and  congregations,  and  those  numerous 
little  temples  which  are  so  thickly  scattered  through  the 
city,  attract  me  in  a  manner  especially  fascinating.  There 
is  an  air  of  cosiness  and  at-home-ativeness  about  them 
which  cannot  be  found  in  the  grander  fanes.  Some  of 
them  seem  by  their  architectural  finisli  to  have  been  built 
in  some  fine  street  or  square,  and  to  have  wandered  off  in 
search  of  quiet  to  their  present  secluded  positions.    It  is 


MODERN   ROME.  69 

beneath  their  arches  that  the  Roman  people  may  be  seen. 
Before  those  aUars  you  may  see  men,  women,  and  children 
kneeling,  their  lips  scarcely  moving  with  the  petitions 
which  are  heard  only  in  another  world.  No  intruding 
tourists,  eye-glassed  and  Hurrayed,  interfere  with  their 
devotions,  and  the  silence  of  the  sacred  place  is  unbroken, 
save  by  the  rattling  of  a  rosary,  or  at  stated  times  by  the 
swell  of  voices  from  the  choir  chapel.  These  are  the 
places  where  the  real  power  of  the  Catholic  religion  makes 
itself  felt  more  unmistakably  than  in  the  grandest  cathe- 
drals, where  every  form  and  sound  is  eloquent  of  worship. 
I  remember  with  pleasure  that  once  in  London,  as  I  was 
pa-^sing  through  that  miserable  quarter  which  lies  between 
Westminster  Abbey  and  Buckingham  Palace,  I  was  at- 
tracted by  the  appearance  of  a  number  of  people  who  were 
entering  a  narrow  doorway.  One  or  two  stylish  carriages, 
-with  crests  upon  their  panels,  and  drivei"s  in  livery,  stood 
before  the  dingy  building  which  seemed  to  wear  a  mysteri- 
ous air  of  semi-cleanliness  in  the  midst  of  the  general 
equalour.  I  followed  the  strange  collection  of  the  repre- 
bentatives  of  opulence  and  the  extremest  poverty  through 
a  long  passage-way,  and  found  myself  in  a  large  room 
which  was  tastefully  fitted  up  for  a  Catholic  chapel.  The 
simplicity  of  the  place,  joined  with  its  strictly  ecclesias- 
tical look,  the  excellent  music,  the  crowded  and  devout 
congregation,  and  the  almost  breathless  attention  which  was 
paid  to  the  simple  and  persuasive  eloquence  of  the  preacher, 
who  was  formerly  one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of  the  estab- 
lished church,  whose  highest  honours  he  had  cast  aside  that 
he  might  minister  more  effectually  to  the  poor  and  despised, 
—  all  these  things  astonished  and  delighted  me.  To  see 
that  church  preserving,  even  in  its  hiddenness  and  poverty, 
its  regard  for  the  comeliness  of  God's  worship,  and  adorn- 
ing that  humble  chapel  ia  a  manner  which  showed  that 


70  AGUrCHKEK. 

the  spirit  which  erected  the  shrines  of  Westminster,  Salis- 
bury, and  York,  had  not  died  out,  carried  me  back  in  spirit 
to  the  catacombs  of  Rome,  where  the  early  Christians 
left  the  abiding  evidences  of  their  zeal  for  the  beauty  of 
the  house  of  God.  I  was  at  that  time  fresh  from  the  con- 
tinent, and  my  mind  was  occupied  with  the  remembrance 
of  the  gorgeous  churches  of  Italy.  Yet,  despite  my  recol- 
lection of  those  "  forests  of  porphyry  and  marble,"  those 
altars  of  lapis  lazuli,  those  tabernacles  glittering  with  gold, 
and  silver,  and  precious  stones,  and  those  mosaics  and 
frescoes  whose  beauty  and  variety  almost  fatigue  the  sense 
of  the  beholder,  —  I  must  say  that  it  gave  me  a  new  sense 
of  the  dignity  and  grandeur  of  the  ancient  Church,  to  see 
her  in  the  midst  of  the  poverty  and  obscurity  to  which  she 
is  now  condemned  in  the  land  which  once  professed  her 
faith,  and  was  once  thickly  planted  with  those  institutions 
of  learning  and  charity  which  are  the  proudest  monuments 
of  her  piogress.  A  large  ship,  under  full  sail,  running  off 
before  a  pleasant  breeze,  is  a  beautiful  sight ;  but  it  is  by 
no  means  so  grandly  impressive  as  that  of  the  same  ship, 
under  close  canvas,  gallantly  riding  out  the  merciless  gale 
that  carried  destruction  to  every  unseaworthy  craft  which 
came  within  its  reach. 

I  am  not  one  of  those  who  lament  over  the  millions 
which  have  been  expended  upon  the  churches  of  Rome.  I 
am  not  inclined  to  follow  the  sordid  principle  of  that  apostle 
who  is  generally  held  up  rather  as  a  warning  than  an  ex- 
ample, and  say  that  it  h&d  been  better  if  the  sums  which 
have  been  devoted  to  architectural  ornament  had  been 
withheld  and  given  to  the  poor.  Religion  has  no  need,  it 
is  true,  of  these  visible  splendours,  any  more  than  of  set 
forms  and  modes  of  speech.  For  it  is  the  heart  that  be- 
lieves, and  loves,  and  prays.  But  we,  poor  mortals,  so 
enslaved  by  our  senses,  so  susceptible  to  external  appear- 


MODERN   ROME.  71 

ances,  need  every  thing  that  can  inspire  in  us  a  respect  for 
something  higher  than  ourselves,  or  remind  us  of  the  glo- 
ries of  the  invisible,  eternal  world.  And  can  we  doubt  that 
He  who  praised  the  action  of  that  pious  woman  who  poured 
the  precious  ointment  upon  His  sacred  head,  looks  with  com- 
placency upon  the  sacrifices  which  are  made  for  the  adorn- 
ment of  the  temples  devoted  to  his  worship  ?  Is  it  a  right 
principle  that  people  who  are  clad  in  expensive  garments, 
who  are  not  content  unless  they  are  surrounded  by  carved 
or  enamelled  furniture,  and  whose  feet  tread  daily  on  costly 
tapestries,  should  find  fault  with  the  generous  piety  which 
has  made  the  churches  of  Italy  what  they  are,  and  should 
talk  so  impressively  about  the  beauty  of  spiritual  worship  ? 
I  have  no  patience  with  these  advocates  for  simplicity  in 
every  thing  that  does  not  relate  to  themselves  and  their 
own  comforts. 

"  Shall  we  serve  Heaven  with  less  respect 
Than  we  do  minister  to  our  gross  selves  ? " 

I  care  not  how  simple  our  private  houses  may  be,  but  I 
advocate  liberality  and  splendour  in  our  public  buildings  of 
all  kinds,  for  the  sake  of  preserving  a  due  respect  for  the 
institutions  they  enshrine. .  I  remember,  in  reading  one  of 
the  old  classical  writers,  — Sallust,  I  think,  —  in  my  young 
days,  being  greatly  impressed  by  his  declaration  that  pri- 
vate luxury  is  a  sure  forerunner  of  a  nation's  downfall,  and 
that  it  is  a  fatal  sign  for  the  dwellings  of  the  citizens  to 
be  spacious  and  magnificent,  whiFe  the  public  edifices  are 
mean  and  unworthy.  Purely  intellectual  as  we  may  think 
ourselves,  we  are,  nevertheless,  somewhat  deferential  to  the 
external  proprieties  of  life,  and  I  very  much  doubt  whether 
the  most  reverential  of  us  could  long  maintain  his  respect 
for  the  Supreme  Court  if  its  sessions  were  held  in  a  tap- 


72  AOUEGHEEK. 

room,  or  for  religion,  if  its  ministers  prayed  and  preached 
in  pea-jackets  and  top-boots. 

Displeasing  as  is  the  presence  of  most  of  the  English- 
speaking  tourists  one  meets  in  Rome,  there  are  two  places 
where  they  delight  to  congregate,  which  yet  have  charms 
for  me  that  not  even  Cockney  vulgarity  or  Yankee  irrev- 
erence can  destroy.  Tiie  church  of  the  convent  of  Trinitd 
de'  Monti  wins  me,  in  spite  of  the  throng  that  fills  its  nave 
at  the  hour  of  evening  every  Sunday  and  festival  day. 
Some  years  since,  when  I  first  visited  Rome,  the  music 
which  was  heard  there  was  of  the  highest  order  of  merit. 
At  present  the  nuns  of  the  Sacred  Heart  have  no  such 
great  artistes  in  their  community  as  they  had  then,  but  the 
music  of  their  choir  is  still  one  of  those  things  which  he 
who  has  once  heard  can  never  forget.  It  is  the  only 
church  in  Rome  in  which  I  have  heard  female  voices  ;  and, 
though  I  much  prefer  the  great  male  choirs  of  the  basili- 
cas, there  is  a  soothing  simplicity  in  the  music  at  Trinitd. 
de'  Monti  which  goes  home  to  almost  every  heart.  I  have 
seen  giddy  and  unthinking  girls,  who  laughed  at  the  ceremo- 
nial they  did  not  understand,  subdued  to  reverence  by  those 
strains,  and  supercilious  Englishmen  reduced  to  the  humili- 
ating necessity  of  wiping  their  eyes.  Indeed,  the  whole 
scene  is  so  harmoniously  impressive  that  its  enchantment 
cannot  be  resisted.  The  solemn  church,  lighted  only  by 
the  twilight  rays,  and  the  tapers  upon  the  high  altar,  —  the 
veiled  forms  of  the  pious  sisterhood  and  their  young  pupils 
in  the  grated  sanctuary, — the  clouding  of  the  fragrant 
incense,  —  the  tinkling  of  that  silvery  bell  and  of  the  chains 
of  the  swinging  censer,  —  those  ancient  and  dignified  rites, 
—  and  over  all,  those  clear,  angelic  voices  praying  and 
praising,  in  litany  and  hymn  —  all  combine  to  make  up  a 
worship,  one  moment  of  which  would  seem  enough  to  wipe 


MODEBN  ROME.  T3 

away  the  memory  of  a  lifetime  of  folly,  and  disappointment, 
and  sorrow. 

The  Sistine  Chapel  is  another  place  to  which  I  am 
bound  by  an  almost  supernatural  fascination.  My  imper- 
fect eyesight  will  not  permit  me  to  enjoy  fully  the  frescoes 
that  adorn  its  lofty  walls ;  but  I  feel  that  I  am  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  great  master  and  some  of  his  mightiest  concep- 
tions. I  do  not  know  whether  the  chapel  is  most  impressive 
in  its  empty  state,  or  when  thronged  for  some  great  religious 
function.  In  the  former  condition,  its  fine  proportions  and 
its  simplicity  satisfy  me  so  completely,  that  I  hardly  wish 
for  thfe  pomp  and  splendour  which  belong  to  it  on  great 
occasions.  I  know  of  nothing  more  grand  than  the  sight 
of  that  simple  throne  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  when  it  is 
occupied  by  that  benignant  old  man,  to  whom  more  than 
two  hundred  millions  of  people  look  with  veneration  as  to  a 
father  and  a  teacher,  —  and  surrounded  by  those  illustrious 
prelates  and  princes  who  compose  a  senate  of  moral  and 
intellectual  worth,  such  as  all  the  world  beside  cannot  par- 
allel. Those  venerable  figures  —  those  gray  hairs  —  those 
massive  foreheads,  and  those  resplendent  robes  of  office, 
seem  to  be  a  part  of  some  great  historical  picture,  rather 
than  a  reality  before  my  eyes.  There  is  nothing  more 
severe  in  actual  experience,  or  more  satisfactory  in  the  recol- 
lection, than  Holy  Week  in  the  Sistine  Chapel.  The  crowd, 
the  fatigue,  and  the  presence  of  so  many  sight-seers,  who 
have  come  with  the  same  feeling  that  they  would  attend  an 
opera  or  a  play,  are  not  calculated  to  increase  one's  bodily 
comfort,  or  to  awaken  the  sentiments  proper  to  so  sacred  a 
season  as  that  which  is  then  commemorated.  But  after 
these  have  passed  away,  there  remains  the  recollection, 
wliich  time  does  not  diminish,  but  makes  more  precious,  of 
that  darkening  chapel  and  the  bowed-down  heads  of  the 
7 


74  AGOECHEEK. 

Pope  and  cardinals,  of  the  music,  "  yearning  like  a  god  in 
pain,"  of  the  melodious  woe  of  the  Miserere,  the  plaintive 
majesty  of  the  Lamentations  and  the  Reproaches,  and  the 
shrill  dissonance  of  the  shouts  of  the  populace  in  the  gospel 
narrative  of  the  crucifixion.  These  are  things  which  would 
outweigh  a  year  of  fatigue  and  pain.  I  know  of  no  greater 
or  more  sincere  tribute  to  the  perfections  of  the  Sistine  choir, 
and  the  genius  of  AUegri  and  Palestrina,  than  the  patience 
with  which  so  many  people  submit  to  be  packed,  like  herring 
in  a  box,  into  that  small  chapel.  But  old  and  gouty  as  I  am, 
I  would  gladly  undergo  all  the  discomforts  of  that  time  to 
hear  those  sounds  once  more. 

I  hear  some  people  complain  of  the  beggars,  and  wonder 
why  Rome,  with  her  splendid  system  of  charities  for  the 
relief  of  every  form  of  suffering,  permits  mendicancy.  For 
myself,  I  am  not  inclined  to  complain  either  of  the  beggars 
or  of  the  merciful  government,  which  refuses  to  look  upon 
them  as  offenders  against  its  laws.  On  the  contrary,  it  ap- 
pears to  me  rather  creditable  than  otherwise  to  Rome,  that 
she  is  so  far  behind  the  age,  as  not  to  class  poverty  with 
crime  among  social  evils.  I  have  a  sincere  respect  for  this 
feature  of  the  Catholic  Church ;  this  regard  for  the  poor  as 
her  most  precious  inheritance,  and  this  unwillingness  that 
her  children  should  think  that,  because  she  has  organized  a 
vast  system  of  benevolence,  they  are  absolved  of  the  duty 
of  private  charity.  In  this  wisdom,  which  thus  provides  for 
the  exercise  of  kindly  feelings  in  alms-giving,  may  be 
found  one  of  the  most  attractive  characteristics  of  the  Ro- 
man Church.  This,  no  less  than  the  austere  religious 
orders  which  she  has  founded,  shows  in  what  sense  she 
receives  the  beatitude,  "  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit." 
And  the  same  kind  spirit  of  equality  may  be  seen  in  her 
churches  and  cathedrals,  where  rich  and  poor  kneel  upon 
the  same  pavement,  before  their  common  God  and  Saviour, 


MODERN   ROME.  76 

and  in  her  cloisters,  and  universities,  and  schools,  where 
social  distinctions  cannot  enter. 

When  I  walk  through  the  cloisters  of  these  venerable 
institutions  of  learning,  or  gaze  upon  the  ancient  city  from 
Monte  Mario,  or  the  Janiculum,  it  seems  to  me  that  never 
until  now  did  I  appreciate  the  world's  indebtedness  to 
Rome.  Dislike  it  as  we  may,  we  cannot  disguise  the  fact, 
that  to  her  every  Christian  nation  owes,  in  a  great  measure, 
its  civilization,  its  literature,  and  its  religion.  The  end- 
less empire  which  Virgil's  muse  foretold,  is  still  hers  ;  and^ 
as  one  of  her  ancient  Christian  poets  said,  those  lands  which 
were  not  conquered  by  her  victorious  arms  are  held  in 
willing  obedience  by  her  religion.  When  I  think  how  all 
our  modern  civilization,  our  art,  letters,  and  jurisprudence, 
sprang  originally  from  Rome,  it  appears  to  me  that  a  nar- 
row religious  prejudice  has  prevented  our  forming  a  due 
estimate  of  her  services  to  humanity.  To  some,  the  glories 
of  the  ancient  empire,  the  memory  of  the  days  when  her 
sovereignty  extended  from  Britain  to  the  Ganges,  and  her 
capital  counted  its  inhabitants  by  millions,  seem  to  render 
all  her  later  history  insignificant  and  dull ;  but  to  my  mind 
the  moral  dignity  and  power  of  Christian  Rome  is  as 
superior  to  her  old  military  omnipotence  as  it  is  possible 
for  the  human  intellect  to  conceive.  The  ancient  emperors, 
with  all  their  power,  could  not  carry  the  Roman  name  much 
beyond  the  limits  of  Europe ;  the  rulers  who  have  suc- 
ceeded them  have  made  the  majestic  language  of  Rome 
familiar  to  two  hemispheres,  and  have  built  up,  by  spiritual 
arms,  the  mightiest  empire  that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 
For  me,  Rome's  most  enduring  glories  are  the  memories 
of  the  times  when  her  great  missionary  orders  civilized  and 
evangelized  the  countries  which  her  arms  had  won,  when 
her  martyrs  sowed  the  seed  of  Christianity  with  their  blood, 
and  her  confessors  illumined  the  world  with  their  virtues ; 


76  AfiUECHEEK. 

when  her  pontiffs,  single-handed,  turned  back  barbarian 
invasions,  or  mitigated  the  severities  of  the  feudal  age, 
or  protected  the  people  by  laying  their  ban  upon  the 
tTjrrants  who  oppressed  them,  or  defended  the  sanctity 
of  marriage,  and  the  rights  of  helpless  women  against 
divorce-seeking  monarchs  and  conquerors.  These  things 
are  the  true  fulfilment  of  the  glowing  prophecy  of  Rome's 
greatness,  which  Virgil  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Anchises, 
when  JEneas  visits  the  Elysian  Fields,  and  hears  from  his 
old  father  that  the  mission  of  the  government  he  is  about 
to  found  is  to  rule  the  world  by  moral  power,  to  make 
peace  between  opposing  nations,  to  spare  the  subject,  and  to 
subdue  the  proud : 

"  Tu  regere  imperio  populos,  Romane,  memento ; 
Hae  tibi  erunt  artes,  pacisque  imponcre  morem, 
Parcere  subjectia,  et  debellare  superbos." 


ROME   TO    MARSEILLES. 

The  weather  was  fearfully  hot  the  day  of  my  departure 
from  Rome.  The  sun  was  staring  down,  without  winking, 
upon  that  wonderful  old  city,  as  if  he  loved  the  sight.  The 
yellow  current  of  old  Father  Tiber  seemed  yellower  than 
ever  in  the  glare.  Except  from  sheer  necessity,  no  person 
moved  abroad ;  for  the  atmosphere,  which  early  in  the  morn- 
ing had  seemed  like  airs  from  heaven,  before  noon  had 
become  most  uncomfortably  like  a  blast  from  the  opposite 
direction.  The  Piazza  di  Spagna  was  like  Tadmor  in  the 
wilderness.  Not  a  single  English  tourist,  with  his  well-read 
Murray  under  his  arm,  was  to  be  seen  there ;  not  a  carriage 
driver  broke  the  stillness  of  the  place  with  his  polyglot 
solicitations  to  ride.  The  great  staircase  of  Trinitd  de* 
Monti  seemed  an  impossibility ;  to  have  climbed  up  its 
weary  ascent  under  that  broiling  sun  would  have  been  poor 
entertainment  for  man  or  beast.  The  squares  of  the  city 
were  like  furnaces,  and  made  one  mentally  curse  architec- 
ture, and  bless  the  narrow,  shady  streets.  The  soldiers  on 
guard  at  the  gates  and  in  the  public  places  looked  as  if 
they  couldn't  help  it.  Now  and  then  a  Capuchin  monk,  in 
his  heavy,  brown  habit,  girded  with  the  knotted  cord,  toiled 
along  on  some  errand  of  benevolence,  and  made  one  mar- 
vel at  his  endurance.  Occasionally  a  cardinal  rolled  by  in 
scarlet  state,  looking  as  if  he  gladly  would  have  exchanged 
the  bondage  of  his  dignity  and  power  for  a  single  day  of 
virtuous  liberty  in  linen  pantaloons. 

Trafl5c  seemed  to  have  departed  this  life  ;  there  were  no 
buyers,  and  the  shopkeepers  slumbered  at  their  counters. 
7  ♦  (77) 


7B  AOUEGHEEK. 

The  cafes  were  shrouded  in  their  long,  striped  awnings, 
and  seemed  to  invite  company  by  their  well-wet  pavement. 
A  few  old  Romans  found  energy  enough  to  call  for  an  oc- 
casional ice  or  lemonade,  and  talked  in  the  intervals  about 
Pammerstone,  and  his  agent,  Mazzini.  How  the  sun  blazed 
down  into  the  Coliseum !  Not  a  breath  of  air  stirred  the 
foliage  that  clothes  that  mighty  ruin.  Even  the  birds  were 
mute.  To  have  crossed  that  broad  arena  would  have  per- 
illed life  as  surely  as  in  those  old  days  when  the  first  Ro- 
man Christians  there  confessed  their  faith.  On  such  a  day, 
one's  parting  visits  must  necessarily  be  brief;  so  I  left  the 
amphitheatre,  and  walked  along  the  dusty  Via  Sacra,  paus- 
ing a  moment  to  ponder  on  the  scene  of  Cicero's  triumphs, 
and  of  so  many  centuries  of  thrilling  history,  and  coming 
to  the  conclusion  that,  if  it  were  such  a  day  as  that  when 
Virginius  in  that  place  slew  his  dear  little  daughter,  the 
blow  was  merciful  indeed.  The  market-place  in  front  of 
the  Pantheon,  usually  so  thronged  and  lively,  was  almost 
deserted.  The  fresh,  bright  vegetables  had  either  all  been 
sold,  or  had  refused  to  grow  in  such  a  heat.  But  the  Pan- 
theon itself  was  unchanged.  There  it  stood,  in  all  its 
severe  grandeur,  majestic  as  in  the  days  of  the  Caesars,  the 
embodiment  of  heathenism,  the  exponent  of  the  worship 
of  the  old,  inexorable  gods,  —  of  justice  without  mercy, 
and  power  without  love.  Its  interior  seemed  cool  and 
refreshing,  for  no  heat  can  penetrate  that  stupendous  pile 
of  masonry,  —  and  I  gathered  new  strength  from  my  short 
visit.  It  was  a  fine  thought  in  the  old  Romans  to  adapt 
the  temples  of  heathenism  to  the  uses  of  Christianity. 
The  contrasts  suggested  to  our  minds  by  this  practice  are 
very  striking.  When  we  see  that  the  images  of  the  old 
revengeful  and  impure  divinities  have  given  place  to  those 
of  the  humble  and  self-denying  heroes  of  Christianity,  that 
the  Saviour  of  the  world  stretches  out  His  arms  upon  the 


ROME   TO   MARSEILLES.  79 

cross,  in  the  place  from  which  the  haughty  Jupiter  once 
hurled  his  thunderbolts,  we  are  borne  at  once  to  a  con- 
clusion more  irresistible  than  any  that  the  mere  force 
of  language  could  produce.  One  of  our  own  poets  felt 
this  in  Rome,  and  expressed  this  same  idea  in  graceful 
verse :  — 

"  The  goddess  of  the  woods  and  fields, 

The  healthful  huntress  undefiled, 
Now  with  her  fabled  brother  yields 

To  sinless  Mary  and  her  Child." 

Bat  I  must  hurry  <m  towards  St.  Peter's.  There  are 
three  places  in  Rome  which  every  one  visits  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible after  he  arrives,  and  as  short  a  time  as  may  be  before 
his  departure  —  the  Coliseum,  the  Pantheon,  and  St. 
Peter's.  The  narrow  streets  between  the  Pantheon  and 
the  Bridge  of  St.  Angelo  were  endurable,  because  they  were 
shady.  It  was  necessary  to  be  careful,  however,  and  not 
trip  over  any  of  the  numerous  Roman  legs  whose  propri- 
etors were  stretched  out  upon  the  pavement  in  various  pic- 
turesque postures,  sleeping  away  the  long  hours  of  that 
scoiching  day.  At  last  the  bridge  is  reached.  Bernini's 
frightful  statues,  which  deform  its  balustrades,  seemed  to  be 
writhing  under  the  influence  of  the  sun.  I  am  quite  confi- 
dent that  St.  Veronica's  napkin  was  curling  with  the  heat. 
The  bronze  archangel  stood  as  usual  upon  the  summit  of 
the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo.  I  stopped  a  few  moments,  think- 
ing that  he  might  see  the  expediency  of  sheathing  his 
sword  and  retreating,  before  he  should  be  compelled,  in  the 
confusion  of  such  a  blaze  as  that,  to  run  away  ;  but  it  was 
useless.  I  moved  on  towards  St.  Peter's,  and  he  still  kept 
guard  there  as  brazen-faced  as  ever.  The  great  square  in 
front  of  the  basilica  seemed  to  have  scooped  up  its  fill  of 
heat,  and  every  body  knows  that  it  is  capable  of  containing 
a  great  deal.    The  few  persons  whom  devotion  or  love  of 


8^  AGUECHEEK. 

art  had  tempted  out  in  such  a  day,  approached  it  under  the 
shade  of  its  beautiful  colonnades.  I  was  obliged  to  content 
myself  with  the  music  of  one  of  those  superb  fountains 
only,  for  the  workmen  were  making  a  new  basin  for  the 
other.  St.  Peter's  never  seemed  to  me  so  wonderful, 
never  filled  me  up  so  completely,  as  it  did  then.  The  con- 
trast of  the  heat  I  had  been  in  with  that  atmosphere  of  un- 
changeable coolness,  the  quiet  of  the  vast  area,  the  fewness 
of  people  moving  about,  all  conspired  to  impress  me  Avith  a 
new  sense  of  the  majesty  and  holiness  of  the  place.  The 
quiet,  unflickering  blaze  of  the  numerous  lamps  that  bum 
unceasingly  around  the  tomb  of  the  Prince  of  the  Apostles 
seemed  a  beacon  of  immortality.  To  one  who  could  at 
that  hour  recall  the  bustle  and  turmoil  of  the  Boulevards  of 
Paris,  or  of  the  Strand,  or  of  Broadway,  the  vast  basilica 
itself  seemed  to  be  an  island  of  peace  in  the  tempestuous 
ocean  of  the  world.  I  am  not  so  blind  a  lover  of  Gothic 
architecture  that  I  can  find  no  beauty  nor  religious  feeling 
in  the  Italian  churches.  I  prefer,  it  is  true,  the  "  long- 
drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault,"  and  the  "  storied  windows 
richly  dight ; "  but  I  cannot  for  that  reason  sneer  at  the 
gracefully  turned  arches,  the  mosaic  walls  and  domes  rich 
in  frescoes  and  precious  marbles,  that  delight  one's  eyes  in 
Italy.  Both  styles  are  good  in  their  proper  places.  The 
Gothic  and  Norman,  with  their  high-pitched  roofs,  are  the 
natural  growth  of  the  snowy  north,  and  to  attempt  to  trans- 
plant them  to  a  land  where  heat  is  to  be  guarded  against, 
were  as  absurd  as  to  expect  the  pine  and  fir  to  take  the 
place  of  the  fig  tree  and  the  palm.  Talk  as  eloquently  as 
we  may  about  being  superior  to  external  impressions,  I 
defy  any  man  to  breathe  the  quiet  atmosphere  of  any  of 
these  old  continental  churches  for  a  few  moments,  without 
feeling  that  he  has  gathered  new  strength  therefrom  to 
tread  the  thorns  of  life.     Lamartine  has  spoken  eloquently 


ROME  TO   MARSEILLES.  81 

on  this  theme :  "  Ye  columns  who  veil  the  sacred  asylums 
■where  my  eyes  dare  not  penetrate,  at  the  foot  of  your  im- 
movable trunks  I  come  to  sigh  !  Cast  over  me  your  deep 
shades,  render  the  darkness  more  obscure,  and  the  silence 
more  profound !  Forests  of  porphyry  and  marble  !  the  air 
which  the  soul  breathes  under  your  arches  is  full  of  mys- 
tery and  of  peace  !  Let  love  and  anxious  cares  seek  shade 
and  solitude  under  the  green  shelter  of  groves,  to  soothe 
their  secret  wounds.  O  darkness  of  the  sanctuary  !  the  eye 
of  religion  prefers  thee  to  the  wood  which  the  breeze  dis- 
turbs !  Nothing  changes  thy  foliage  ;  thy  still  shade  is  the 
image  of  motionless  eternity ! " 

There  was  not  time  to  linger  long.  The  pressure  of 
worldly  engagements  was  felt  even  at  the  shrine  of  the 
apostles.  I  walked  about,  and  tried  to  recall  the  many 
splendid  religious  pageants  I  had  there  witnessed,  and  won- 
dered sorrowfully  whether  I  should  ever  again  listen  to  that 
matchless  choir,  or  have  my  heart  stirred  to  its  depths  by 
the  silver  trumpets  that  reecho  under  that  sonorous  vault 
in  the  most  solemn  moment  of  religion's  holiest  rite.  Once 
more  out  in  the  clear  hot  atmosphere  which  seemed  hotter 
than  before.  The  Supreme  Pontiff  was  absent  from  his  cap- 
ital, and  the  Vatican  was  comparatively  empty.  The  Swiss 
guards,  in  their  fantastic  but  picturesque  uniform,  were  loi- 
tering about  the  foot  of  the  grand  staircase,  and  sighing  for 
a  breath  of  the  cool  air  of  their  Alpine  home.  I  took  a  last 
long  gaze  at  that  grand  old  pile  of  buildings,  —  the  home 
of  all  that  is  most  wonderful  in  art,  the  abode  of  that  power 
which  overthrew  the  old  Roman  empire,  inaugurated  the 
civilization  of  Europe,  and  planted  Christianity  in  every 
quarter  of  the  globe,  —  and  then  turned  my  unwiUing  feet 
homewards.  In  my  course  I  passed  the  foot  of  the  Janio- 
ulum  Hill :  it  was  too  hot,  however,  to  think  of  climbing  up 
to  the  oonvent  of  Sant'  Onofrio  —  though  I  would  gladly  have 


82  AGUECHEEK. 

paid  a  final  visit  to  that  lovely  spot  where  the  munificence 
of  Pius  IX.  has  just  completed  a  superb  sepulchre  for 
the  repose  of  Tasso.  So  I  crossed  the  Tiber  in  one  of  those 
little  ferry  boats  which  are  attached  to  a  cable  stretched  over 
the  river,  and  thus  are  swung  across  by  the  movement  of 
the  current,  —  a  labour-saving  arrangement  preeminently 
Roman  in  its  character,  —  and  soon  found  myself  in  my 
lodgings.  However  warm  the  weather  may  be  in  Rome, 
one  can  keep  tolerably  comfortable  so  long  as  he  does  not 
move  about,  —  thanks  to  the  thick  walls  and  heavy  wooden 
window  shutters  of  the  houses, — so  I  found  my  room  a  cool 
asylum  after  my  morning  of  laborious  pleasure. 

At  last,  the  good  byes  having  all  been  said,  behold  me, 
-with  my  old  portmanteau,  (covered  with  its  many-coloured 
coat  of  baggage  labels,  those  trophies  of  many  a  hard  cam- 
paign of  travel,)  at  the  office  of  the  diligence  for  Civita 
Vecchia.  The  luggage  and  the  passengers  having  been 
successfully  stowed  away,  the  lumbering  vehicle  rolled  down 
the  narrow  streets,  and  we  were  soon  outside  the  gate  that 
opens  upon  the  old  Aurelian  "Way.  Here  the  passports  were 
examined,  the  postilions  cracked  their  whips,  and  I  felt  in- 
deed that  I  was  "  banished  from  Rome."  It  is  a  sad  thing 
to  leave  Rome.  I  have  seen  people  who  have  made  but  a 
brief  stay  there  shed  more  tears  on  going  away  than  they 
ever  did  on  a  departure  from  home ;  but  for  one  who  has 
lived  there  long  enough  to  feel  like  a  Roman  citizen  —  to 
feel  that  the  broken  columns  of  the  Forum  have  become  a 
part  of  his  being  —  to  feel  as  familiar  with  St.  Peter's  and 
the  Vatican  as  with  the  King's  Chapel  and  the  Tremont 
House  —  it  is  doubly  hard  to  go  away.  The  old  city,  so 
"  rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,"  seems  invested  with  a  per- 
sonality that  appeals  most  powerfully  to  every  man,  and 
would  fain  hold  him  back  from  returning  to  the  world.  The 
lover  of  art  there  finds  its  choicest  treasures  ever  open  to 


ROME   TO   MARSEILLES.  83 

him  ;  the  artist  there  finds  an  abundance  of  employment 
for  his  chisel  or  his  brush ;  the  man  of  business  there  finds 
an  asylum  from  the  vexing  cares  of  a  commercial  career ; 
the  student  of  antiquity  or  of  history  can  there  take  his  fill 
amid  the  "  wrecks  of  a  world  whose  ashes  still  are  warm," 
and  listen  to  the  centuries  receding  into  the  unalterable  past 
with  their  burdens  of  glory  or  of  crime ;  the  lover  of  prac- 
tical benevolence  will  there  be  delighted  by  the  inspection 
of  establishments  for  the  relief  of  every  possible  form  of 
want  and  suffering ;  the  enthusiast  for  education  finds  there 
two  universities  and  hundreds  of  public  schools  of  every 
gi-ade,  and  all  as  free  as  the  bright  water  that  sparkles  in 
Rome's  countless  fountains  ;  the  devout  can  there  rekindle 
their  devotion  at  the  shrines  of  apostles  and  martyrs,  and 
breathe  the  holy  air  of  cloisters  in  .which  saints  have  lived 
and  died,  or  join  their  voices  with  those  that  resound  in  old 
churches,  whose  pavements  are  furrowed  by  the  knees  of 
pious  generations ;  the  admirer  of  pomp,  and  power,  and 
historic  associations  can  there  witness  the  more  than  regal 
magnificence  of  a  power,  compared  to  which  the  houses  of 
Bourbon  or  of  Hapsburg  are  but  of  yesterday ;  the  lover 
of  republican  simplicity  can  there  find  subject  for  admira- 
tion in  the  facility  of  access  to  the  highest  authorities,  and 
in  the  perfection  of  his  favourite  elective  system  by  which 
the  supreme  power  is  perpetuated.  There  is,  in  short,  no 
class  of  men  to  whom  Rome  does  not  attach  itself.  People 
may  complain  during  their  first  week  that  it  is  dull,  or  mel- 
ancholy, or  dirty ;  but  you  generally  find  them  sorry  enough 
to  go  away,  and  looking  back  to  their  residence  there  as  the 
happiest  period  of  their  existence.  Somebody  has  said, — 
and  I  wish  that  I  could  recall  the  exact  word."*,  they  are  so 
true,  —  that  when  we  leave  Paris,  or  Naples,  or  Florence, 
we  feel  a  natural  sorrow,  as  if  we  were  parting  from  a  clier- 


84  AGUECHBEK. 

ished  friend;  but  on  our  departure  from  Rome  we  feel  a  pang 
like  that  of  separation  from  a  woman  whom  we  love ! 

At  last  Rome  disappeared  from  sight  in  the  dusk  of 
evening,  and  the  discomforts  of  the  journey  began  to  make 
themselves  obtrusive.  The  night  air  in  Italy  is  not  con- 
sidered healthy,  and  we  therefore  had  the  windows  of  the 
diligence  closed.  Like  Charles  Lamb  after  the  oyster  pie, 
we  were  "  all  full  inside,"  and  a  pretty  time  we  had  of  it. 
As  to  respiration,  you  might  as  well  have  expected  the  pep- 
formance  of  that  function  from  a  mackerel  occupying  the 
centre  of  i  well-packed  barrel  of  his  finny  comrades,  as  of 
any  person  iside  that  diligence.  Of  course  there  was  a 
baby  in  the  cuinpany,  and  of  course  the  baby  cried.  I 
could  not  blame  it,  for  even  a  fat  old  gentleman  who  sat 
opposite  to  me  would  have  cried  if  he  had  not  known  how 
to  swear.  But  it  is  useless  to  recall  the  anguish  of  that 
night :  suffice  it  to  say  that  for  several  hours  the  only  air 
we  got  was  an  occasional  vocal  performance  from  the  above- 
mentioned  infant.  At  midnight  we  reached  Palo,  on  the 
sea  coast,  where  I  heard  ''  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the 
crag,"  and  felt  more  keenly  than  before  that  I  had  indeed 
left  Rome  behind  me.  The  remainder  of  the  journey  being 
along  the  coast,  we  had  the  window  open,  though  it  was 
not  much  better  on  that  account,  as  we  were  choking  with 
dust.  It  was  small  comfort  to  see  the  cuttings  and  fiUings- 
in  for  the  railway  which  is  destined  soon  to  destroy  those 
beastly  diligences,  and  place  Rome  within  two  or  three 
hours  of  its  seaport. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  after  ten  toilsome  hours, 
I  found  myself,  tired,  dusty,  and  hungry,  in  Civita  Vecchia, 
a  city  which  has  probably  been  the  cause  of  more  profanity 
than  any  other  part  of  the  world,  including  Flanders.  I 
was  determined  not  to  be  fleeced  by  any  of  the  hotel  keep- 
ers;  so  I  staggered  about  the  streets  until  I  found  a  barber's 


ROME  TO   MARSEILLES.  85 

shop  open.  Having  repaired  the  damage  of  the  preceding 
night,  I  hove  to  in  a  neighboring  cafe  long  enough  to  take 
in  a  little  ballast  in  the  way  of  breakfast.  Afterwards  I  fell 
in  with  an  Englishman,  of  considerable  literary  reputation, 
whom  I  had  several  times  met  in  Rome.  He  was  one  of 
those  men  who  seem  to  possess  all  sorts  of  sense  except 
common  sense.  He  was  full  of  details,  and  could  tell  ex- 
actly the  height  of  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  or  of  the  great 
pyramid,  —  could  explain  the  process  of  the  manufacture 
of  the  Minie  rifle  or  the  boring  of  an  artesian  well,  and 
could  calculate  an  eclipse  with  Bond  or  Secchi,  —  but  he 
could  not  pack  a  carpet-bag  to  save  his  life.  That  he 
should  have  been  able  to  travel  so  far  from  home  alone  is 
a  fine  commentary  on  the  honesty  and  good  nature  of  the 
people  of  the  continent.  I  could  not  help  thinking  what 
a  time  he  would  have  were  he  to  attempt  to  travel  in 
America.  He  would  think  he  had  discovered  a  new 
nomadic  tribe  in  the  cabmen  of  New  York.  He  had  come 
down  to  Civita  Vecchia  in  a  most  promiscuous  style,  and 
when  I  discovered  him  he  was  trying  to  bring  about  a 
union  between  some  six  or  eight  irreconcilable  pieces  of 
luggage.  I  aided  him  successfully  in  the  work,  and  his 
look  of  perplexity  and  despair  gave  way  to  one  of  gratitude 
and  admiration  for  his  deliverer.  Delighted  at  this  escape 
from  the  realities  of  his  situation,  he  launched  out  into  a 
profound  dissertation  on  the  philosophy  of  language  and 
the  formation  of  provincial  dialects,  and  it  was  some  time 
before  I  could  bring  him  down  to  the  common  and  practical 
business  of  securing  his  passage  in  the  steamer  for  Mar- 
seilles. Ten  o'clock,  however,  found  us  on  board  one  of  the 
steamers  of  the  Messageries  Imperiales,  and,  we  were  very 
shortly  after  under  way.  We  were  so  unfortunate  as  to 
run  aground  on  a  little  spit  of  land  in  getting  out  of  port, 
as  we  ran  a  little  too  near  an  English  steamer  that  was 
8 


M  AGUECHEEE. 

lying  there.  But  a  Russian  frigate  sent  off  a  cable  to  us, 
and  thus  established  an  alliance  between  their  flag  and  the 
French,  which  drew  the  latter  out  of  the  difficulty  in  which 
it  had  got  by  too  close  a  proximity  to  its  English  neighbour. 

It  was  a  beautiful,  cloudless  day,  and  reminded  me  of 
many  halcyon  days  I  had  spent  on  that  blue  Mediterranean 
in  other  times.  It  reminded  me  of  some  of  my  childhood's 
days  in  the  country  in  New  England,  —  days  described  by 
Emerson  where  he  says  that  we  "  bask  in  the  shining  hours 
of  Florida  and  Cuba,"  —  when  "the  day,  immeasurably 
long,  sleeps  over  the  broad  hills  and  warm,  wide  fields,"  — 
when  "the  cattle,  as  they  lie  on  the  ground,  seem  to  have 
great  and  tranquil  thoughts."  It  was  on  such  a  day  that  I 
used  to  delight  to  pore  over  my  Shakspeare,  undisturbed 
by  any  sound  save  the  hum  of  the  insect  world,  or  the  im- 
patient switch  of  the  tail,  or  movement  of  the  feet,  of  a 
horse  who  had  sought  the  same  shade  I  was  enjoying.  To 
a  man  who  has  been  rudely  used  by  fortune,  or  who  ha» 
drunk  deep  of  sorrow  or  disappointment,  I  can  conceive  of 
nothing  more  grateful  or  consoling  than  a  summer  cruise  in 
the  Mediterranean.  "  The  sick  heart  often  needs  a  warm 
climate  as  much  as  the  sick  body." 

My  English  friend,  immediately  on  leaving  port,  took 
some  five  or  six  prescriptions  for  the  prevention  of  seasick- 
ness, and  then  went  to  bed,  so  that  I  had  some  opportunity 
to  look  about  among  our  ship's  company.  There  were  two 
men,  apparently  companions,  though  they  hardly  spoke  to 
each  other,  who  amused  me  very  much.  One  was  a  person 
of  about  four  feet  and  a  half  in  height,  who  walked  about 
on  deck  with  that  manner  which  so  many  diminutive  per- 
sons have,  of  wishing  to  be  thought  as  tall  as  Mr.  George 
Barrett.  He  boasted  a  deportment  that  would  have  made 
the  elder  Turveydrop  envious,  while  it  was  evident  that 
under  that  serene  and  dignified  exterior  lay  hidden  all  the 


ROME   TO   MARSEILLES.  87 

warm-heartedness  and  geniality  of  that  eminent  philan- 
thropist who  was  obliged  to  play  a  concerto  on  the  violin 
to  calm  his  grief  at  seeing  the  conflagration  of  his  native 
city.  The  other  looked  as  if  "  he  had  not  loved  the  world, 
nor  the  world  him  ; "  he  was  a  thin,  bilious-looking  person, 
and  seemed  like  a  whole  serious  family  rolled  into  one 
individuality.  I  felt  a  great  deal  of  curiosity  to  know 
whether  he  was  reduced  to  that  pitiable  condition  by  piety 
or  indigestion.  I  felt  sure  that  he  was  meditating  suicide 
as  he  gazed  upon  the  sea,  and  I  Stood  by  him  for  some 
time  to  prevent  his  accomplishing  any  such  purpose,  until 
I  became  convinced  tliat  to  let  him  take  the  jump,  if  he 
pleased,  would  be  far  the  more  philanthropic  course  of 
action.  There  was  a  French  bishop,  and  a  colonel  of  the 
French  staff  at  Rome,  among  the  passengers,  and  by  their 
genial  urbanity  they  fairly  divided  between  them  the  affec- 
tions of  the  whole  company.  Either  of  them  would  have 
made  a  fog  in  the  English  Channel  seem  like  the  sunshine 
of  the  Gulf  of  Egina.  I  picked  up  a  pleasant  companion 
in  an  Englishman  who  had  travelled  much  and  read  more, 
and  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day  with  him.  When  he 
found  that  I  was  an  American,  he  at  once  asked  me  if  I 
had  ever  been  to  Niagara,  and  had  ever  seen  Longfellow 
and  Emerson.  I  am  astonished  to  find  so  many  cultivated 
English  people  who  know  little  or  nothing  about  Tennyson ; 
I  am  inclined  to  think  he  has  ten  readers  in  America  to 
one  in  England,  while  the  English  can  repeat  Longfellow 
by  pages. 

After  thirty  hours  of  pleasant  sailing  along  by  Corsica 
and  Elba,  and  along  the  coast  of  France,  until  it  seemed  as 
if  our  cruise  (like  that  of  the  widow  of  whom  we  have  all 
read)  would  never  have  an  end,  we  came  to  anchor  in  the 
midst  of  a  vast  fleet  of  steamers  in  the  new  port  of  Mar- 
Beilles.     The  bustle  of  commercial  activity  seemed  any 


88  AGUECHEEK. 

thing  bat  pleaannt  after  the  classical  repose  of  Rome ;  but 
the  landlady  of  the  hotel  was  most  gracious,  and  when  I 
opened  the  window  of  my  room  looking  out  on  the  Place 
Royale,  one  of  those  peripatetic  dispensers  of  melody, 
whose  life  (like  the  late  M.  Mantilini's  after  he  was  re- 
duced in  circumstances)  must  be  "  one  demnilion  horrid 
grind,"  executed  "  Sweet  Home "  in  a  manner  that  went 
entirely  home  to  the  heart  of  at  least  one  of  his  accidental 
audience. 


MARSEILLES,  LYONS,  AND  AIX  IN  SAVOY. 

If  the  people  of  Marseilles  do  not  love  the  Emperor  of 
the  French,  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves.  He 
has  so  completely  changed  the  aspect  of  that  city  by  his 
improvements,  that  the  man  who  knows  it  as  it  existed  in 
the  reign  of  Louis  Philippe,  would  be  lost  if  he  were  to 
revisit  it  now.  The  completion  of  the  railway  from  Paris 
to  Marseilles  is  an  inestimable  advantage  to  the  latter  city, 
while  the  new  port,  in  magnitude  and  style  of  execution,  is 
worthy  of  comparison  with  the  splendid  docks  of  London 
and  Liverpool.  The  flags  of  every  civilized  nation  may  be 
seen  there ;  s^nd  the  variety  of  costumes  and  languages, 
which  bewilder  one's  eyes  and  ears,  assure  him  that  he  is  in 
the  commercial  metropolis  of  the  Mediterranean.  The 
frequency  of  steam  communication  between  Marseilles  and 
the  various  ports  of  Spain,  Italy,  Africa,  and  the  Levant, 
draws  to  it  a  large  proportion  of  the  travellers  in  those 
directions.  I  believe  that  Marseilles  is  only  celebrated  for 
having  been  colonized  by  the  Phocaeans,  or  some  such  peo- 
ple, for  having  several  times  been  devastated  by  the  plague, 
and  for  having  been  very  perfectly  described  by  Dickens  in 
his  Little  Dorrit.  The  day  on  which  I  arrived  there  was 
very  like  the  one  described  by  Dickens ;  so  if  any  one 
would  like  further  particulars,  he  had  better  overhaul  his 
Little  Dorrit,  and,  "  when  found,  make  note  of  it." 

The  day  after  my  arrival  I  saw  a  grand  religious  proces- 
sion in  the  streets  of  the  city.  The  landlady  of  my  hotel 
had  told  me  of  it,  but  my  expectations  were  not  raised  very 
high,  for  I  thought  that  afler  the  grandeur  of  Rome,  all 
8»  (88) 


90  AGUECHEEK. 

Other  things  in  that  way  would  be  comparatively  tame.  But 
I  was  mistaken  ;  the  procession  fairly  rivalled  those  of 
Rome.  There  were  the  same  gorgeous  vestments,  the 
same  picturesque  groupings  of  black  robes  and  snowy  sur- 
plices, of  mitres  and  crosiers  and  shaven  crowns,  of  scarlet 
and  purple  and  cloth  of  gold,  the  same  swinging  censers  and 
clouds  of  fragrant  incense,  the  same  swelling  flood  of  almost 
supernatural  music.  The  municipal  authorities  of  the  city, 
with  the  staff  of  the  garrison,  joined  in  the  procession,  and 
the  military  display  was  such  as  can  hardly  be  seen  out  of 
France.  I  have  often  been  struck  with  the  facility  with 
which  the  Catholic  religion  adapts  itself  to  the  character  of 
every  nation.  I  have  had  some  opportunity  of  observation  ; 
I  have  seen  the  Catholic  Church  on  three  out  of  the  four 
continents,  and  have  every  where  noticed  the  same  phe- 
nomenon. Mahometanism  could  never  be  transplanted  to 
the  snowy  regions  of  Russia  or  Norway  ;  it  needs  the  soft, 
enervating  atmosphere  of  Asia  to  keep  it  alive  ;  the  ve- 
randa, the  bubbling  fountain,  the  noontide  repose,  are  all 
parts  of  it.  Puritanism  is  the  natural  growth  of  a  country 
where  the  sun  seldom  shines,  and  which  is  shut  out  by  a 
barrier  of  water  and  fog  from  kindly  intercourse  with  its 
neighbours.  It  could  never  thrive  in  the  bright  south. 
The  merry  vine-dressers  of  Italy  could  never  draw  down 
their  faces  to  the  proper  length,  and  would  be  very  unwill- 
ing to  exchange  their  blithesome  canzonetti  for  Stemhold 
and  Hopkins's  version.  But  the  Catholic  Church,  while  it 
unites  its  professors  in  the  belief  of  the  same  inflexible 
creed,  leaves  them  entirely  free  in  all  mere  externals  and 
national  peculiarities.  When  I  see  the  light-hearted  French- 
man, the  fiery  Italian,  the  serious  Spaniard,  the  cunning 
Greek,  the  dignified  Armenian,  the  energetic  Russian,  the 
hard-headed  Dutchman,  the  philosophical  German,  the 
formal  and  '^  respectable  **  Englishman,  the  thrifty  Scotch- 


MARSEILLES,   LYONS,  AND  AIX  IN  SAVOY.  91 

man,  the  careless  and  warm-hearted  L-ishman,  and  the  cal- 
culating, go-ahead  American,  all  bound  together  by  the  pro- 
fession of  the  same  faith,  and  yet  retaining  their  national 
characteristics,  —  I  can  compare  it  to  nothing  but  to  a  simi- 
lar phenomenon  that  we  may  notice  in  the  prism,  which, 
while  it  is  a  pure  and  perfect  crystal,  is  found  on  examina- 
tion to  contain,  in  their  perfection,  all  the  various  colours  of 
the  rainbow. 

The  terminus  of  the  Lyons  and  Meditewanean  Railway 
is  one  of  the  best  things  of  its  kind  in  the  world.  I  wish 
that  some  of  our  American  railway  directors  could  take  a 
few  lessons  from  the  French.  The  attention  paid  to  secur- 
ing the  comfort  and  safety  of  the  passengers  and  the  regu- 
larity of  the  trains  would  quite  bewilder  him.  Instead  of 
finding  the  station  a  long,  unfinished  kind  of  shed,  with  two 
small,  beastly  waiting  rooms  at  one  side,  and  a  stand 
for  a  vender  of  apples,  root  beer,  and  newspapers,  he 
would  see  a  fine  stone  structure,  several  hundred  feet  in 
length,'  Avith  a  roof  of  iron  and  glass.  He  would  ent€r  a 
hall  which  would  remind  him  of  the  Doric  hall  of  the  State 
House  in  Boston,  only  that  it  is  several  times  larger,  and  is 
paved  with  marble.  He  would  choose  out  of  the  three 
ticket  offices  of  the  three  classes,  where  he  would  ride,  and 
he  would  be  served  with  a  promptness  and  politeness  that 
would  remind  him  of  Mr.  Child  in  the  palmy  days  of  the 
old  Tremont  Theatre,  while  he  would  notice  that  an  officer 
stood  by  each  ticket  office  to  see  that  every  purchaser  got 
his  ticket  and  the  proper  change,  and  to  give  all  necessary 
information.  Having  booked  his  luggage,  he  would  be 
ushered  into  one  of  the  three  waiting  rooms,  all  of  them 
furnished  in  a  style  of  neatness  and  elegance  that  would 
greatly  astonish  him.  He  might  employ  the  interval  in  the 
study  of  geography,  assisted  by  a  map  painted  on  one  side 
of  the  room,  giving  the  entire  south  of  France  and  Fied- 


92  AUUECUEEK. 

mont,  with  the  railways,  &c.,  and  executed  in  such  a  style 
that  the  names  of  the  towns  are  legible  at  a  distance  of 
fifteen  or  twenty  feet.  Two  or  three  minutes  before  the 
hour  fixed  for  the  starting  of  the  train,  the  door  would  be 
opened,  and  he  would  take  his  seat  in  the  train  with  the 
other  passengers.  The  whole  affair  would  go  on  so  system- 
atically, with  such  an  absence  of  noise  and  excitement,  that 
he  would  doubt  whether  he  had  been  in  a  railway  station  at 
all,  until  he  found  himself  spinning  along  at  a  rapid  rate, 
through  long  tunnels,  and  past  the  beautiful  panorama  of 
Proven9al  landscape. 

The  sun  was  as  bright  as  it  always  is  in  fair  Provence, 
the  sky  as  blue.  The  white  dusty  roads  wound  around  over 
the  green  landscape,  like  great  serpents  seeking  to  hide 
their  folds  amid  those  hills.  The  almond,  the  lemon,  and  the 
fig  attracted  the  attention  of  the  traveller  from  the  north, 
before  all  other  trees,  —  not  to  forget  however,  the  pale 
foliage  of  that  tree  which  used  to  furnish  wreaths  for  Mi- 
nerva's brow,  but  now  supplies  us  with  oil  for  our  salads. 
Aries,  with  its  old  amphitheatre  (a  broken  shadow  of  the 
Coliseum)  looming  up  above  it,  lay  stifled  with  dust  and 
broiling  in  the  sun,  as  we  hurried  on  towards  Avignon.  It 
does  not  take  much  time  to  see  that  old  city,  which,  from 
being  so  long  the  abode  of  the  exiled  popes,  seems  to  have 
caught  and  retained  something  of  the  quiet  dignity  and 
repose  of  Rome  itself.  That  gloomy  old  palace  of  the 
popes,  with  its  lofty  turrets,  seems  to  brood  over  the  town, 
and  weigh  it  down  as  with  sorrow  for  its  departed  great- 
ness.' Centuries  have  passed,  America  has  been  discovered, 
the  whole  face  of  Europe  has  changed,  since  a  pontiff 
occupied  those  halls  ;  and  yet  there  it  stands,  a  monument 
commemorating  a  mere  episode  in  the  history  of  the  see  of 
St.  Peter. 

Arriving  at  Lyons,  I  found  another  palatial  station,  on 


MARSEILLES,    LYONS,    AND    AIX    IN    SAVOY.  93 

even  a  grander  scale  than  that  of  Marseilles.  The  archi- 
tect has  worked  the  coats  of  arms  of  the  different  cities  of 
France  into  the  stone  work  of  the  exterior  in  a  very  effec- 
tive manner.  Lyons  bears  witness,  no  less  than  Marseilles, 
to  the  genius  of  the  wonderful  iiian  who  now  governs  France. 
It  is  a  popular  notion  in  England  and  America,  that  the 
enterprise  of  Napoleon  III.  has  been  confined  to  the  im- 
provement of  Paris.  If  persons  who  labour  under  this  error 
would  extend  their  joumeyings  a  little  beyond  the  ordinary 
track  of  a  summer  excursion,  they  would  find  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  town  in  the  empire  that  has  not  felt  the  influence 
of  his  skill  as  a  statesman  and  political  economist.  The 
Rue  ImperiaU  of  Lyons  is  a  monument  of  which  any  sov- 
ereign might  be  justly  proud.  The  activity  of  Lyons,  the 
new  buildings  rising  on  every  side,  and  its  look  of  pros- 
perity, would  lead  one  to  suppose  that  it  was  some  place 
that  had  just  been  settled,  instead  of  a  city  with  twenty 
centuries  of  history.  The  Sunday,  I  was  glad  to  see,  was 
well  observed;  perhaps  not  exactly  in  the  style  which 
Aminadab  Sleek  would  commend,  but  in  a  very  rational 
Christian,  un-Jewish  manner.  The  shops  were,  for  the 
most  part,  closed,  the  churches  were  crowded  with  people, 
and  in  the  afternoon  and  evening  the  entire  population  was 
abroad  enjoying  itself —  and  a  cleaner,  better-behaved, 
happier-looking  set  of  people  I  never  saw.  The  excessive 
heat  still  continues.  It  is  now  more  than  two  months  since 
I  opened  my  umbrella ;  the  prospects  of  the  harvest  are 
good,  but  they  are  praying  hard  in  the  churches  for  a  little 
rain.  During  my  stay  at  Lyons,  I  lived  almost  entirely  on 
fresh  figs,  and  plums  and  ices.  How  full  the  cafes  were 
those  sultr}--  evenings !  How  busy  must  the  freezers  have 
been  in  the  cellars  below !  I  read  through  all  the  news- 
papers I  could  lay  my  hands  on,  and  then  amused  myself 
with  watching  the  gay,  chattering  throng  around  me.    How 


04  AGUECHEEK. 

my  mind  flew  across  the  ocean  that  evening  to  a  quiet  back 
parlour  at  the  South  End  !  I  could  see  the  venerable  Baron 
receiving  a  guest  on  such  a  night  as  that,  and  making  the 
weather  seem  cool  by  contrast  with  the  warmth  of  his  hos- 
pitality. I  could  see  him  offering  to  his  perspiring  visitor 
a  release  from  the  slavery  of  broadcloth,  in  the  loan  of  a 
nankeen  jacket,  and  then  busying  himself  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  a  compound  of  old  Cochituate,  (I  had  almost  said 
old  Jamaica,)  of  ice,  of  sugar,  yea,  of  lemons,  and  com- 
mending the  grateful  chalice  to  the  parched  lips  of  his  guest. 
Such  an  evening  in  the  Baron's  back  parlour  is  the  very 
ecstasy  of  hospitality.  It  is  many  months  since  that  old 
nankeen  jacket  folded  me  in  its  all-embracing  arms,  but  the 
very  thought  of  it  awakes  a  thrill  of  pleasure  in  my  heart. 
When  I  last  saw  it,  "  decay's  effacing  fingers  "  had  meddled 
with  the  buttons  thereof,  and  it  was  growing  a  trifle  con- 
sumptive in  the  vicinity  of  the  elbows  ;  but  I  hope  that  it  is 
good  for  many  a  year  of  usefulness  yet,  before  the  epitaph 
writer  shall  commence  the  recital  of  its  merits  with  those 
melancholy  words.  Hie  jacet !  Pardon  me,  dear  reader, 
for  this  digression  from  the  recital  of  my  wanderings  ;  but 
this  jacket,  the  remembrance  of  which  is  so  dear  to  me,  is 
not  the  trifle  it  may  seem  to  you.  It  is,  I  believe,  the  only 
institution  in  the  world  of  the  same  age  and  importance, 
which  has  not  been  apostrophized  in  verse  by  that  gifted 
bard,  Mr.  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper.  If  this  be  not  celeb- 
rity, what  is  it  ? 

In  one  of  the  narrow  streets  of  Lyons  I  found  a  barber 
named  Melnotte.  He  was  a  man  somewhat  advanced  in 
life,  and  I  feel  sure  that  he  addressed  a  good-looking  woman 
in  a  snowy  white  cap,  who  looked  in  from  a  back  room 
while  I  was  having  my  hair  cut,  as  Pauline.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  when  he  had  finished  his  work,  and  I  walked  up  to 
the  mirror  to  inspect  it,  he  addressed  to  me  the  language 


MARSEILLES,   LYONS,   AND   AIX   IN   SAVOY.  95 

of  Bulwer's  hero,  "  Do  you  like  the  picture  ?  "  or  words  to 
that  effect.  I  cannot  help  mistrusting  that  Sir  Edward 
may  have  misled  us  concerning  the  ultimate  history  of  the 
Lady  of  Lyons  and  her  husband.  But  the  heat  was  too 
intolerable  for  human  endurance ;  so  I  packed  up,  and  leav- 
ing that  fair  city,  with  its  numerous  graceful  bridges,  and 
busy  looms  whose  fabrics  brighten  the  eyes  of  the  beauties 
of  Europe  and  America,  and  lighten  the  purses  of  their 
chivalry,  —  leaving  Our  Lady  of  Fourvieres  looking  down 
with  outstretched  hands  from  the  dome  of  her  lofty  shrine, 
and  watching  over  her  faithful  Lyonnese,  —  I  turned  my 
face  towards  the  Alpine  regions. 

Tlie  Alps  have  always  been  to  me  what  Australia  was  to 
the  late  Mr.  Micawber  — "  the  bright  dream  of  my  youth, 
and  the  fallacious  aspiration  of  my  riper  years."  I  remem- 
ber when  I  was  young,  long  before  the  days  of  railways  and 
steamers,  in  the  times  when  a  man  who  had  travelled  in 
Europe  was  invested  with  a  sort  of  awful  dignity  —  I  re- 
member hearing  a  travelled  uncle  of  mine  tell  about  the 
Alps,  and  I  resolved,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  boyhood, 
thenceforward  to  "save  up"  all  my  Fourth  of  July  and 
Artillery  Election  money,  until  I  should  be  able  to  go  and 
see  one.  When  the  Rev.  James  Sheridan  Knowles  (he 
was  a  wicked  playactor  in  those  days)  produced  his  drama 
of  William  Tell,  how  it  fed  the  flame  of  my  ambition ! 
How  I  longed  to  stand  with  the  hero  once  again  among  his 
native  hills  !  How  I  loved  the  glaciers  !  How  I  doted  on 
the  avalanches !  But  age  has  cooled  the  longings  of  my 
heart  for  mountain  excursions,  and  robbed  my  legs  of  all 
their  climbing  powers,  so  that  if  it  depends  upon  my  own 
bodily  exertions,  the  Vale  of  Chamouni  will  be  entirely  un- 
available for  me,  and  every  mount  will  be  to  me  a  blank. 
The  scenery  along  the  line  of  railway  from  Araberieu  to 
Culoz  on  the  Rhone  is  very  grand.     The  ride  reminded  me 


96  AOUECHEEK. 

of  the  ride  over  the  Atlantic  and  St.  Lawrence  road  through 
the  White  Mountains,  only  it  is  finer.  The  boldness  of  the 
cliffs  and  precipices  was  something  to  make  one's  heart  beat 
quick,  and  cause  him  to  wonder  how  the  peasants  could 
work  so  industriously,  and  the  cattle  feed  so  constantly, 
without  stopping  to  look  up  at  the  magnificence  that  hemmed 
them  in. 

At  Culoz  I  went  on  board  one  of  those  peculiar  steamers 
of  the  Rhone  —  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  length 
by  ten  or  twelve  in  width.  Our  way  lay  through  a  narrow 
and  circuitous  branch  of  the  river  for  several  miles.  The 
windings  of  the  river  were  such  that  men  were  obliged  to 
turn  the  boat  about  by  means  of  cables,  which  they  made 
fast  to  posts  fixed  in  the  banks  on  either  side  for  that  pur- 
pose. The  scenery  along  the  banks  was  like  a  dream  of 
Paradise.  To  say  that  the  country  was  smiling  with  flowers 
and  verdure  does  not  express  it  —  it  was  bursting  into  a 
broad  grin  of  fertility.  Such  vineyards !  Not  like  the 
grape  vine  in  your  back  yard,  dear  reader,  nailed  up  against 
a  brick  wall,  but  large,  luxuriant  vines,  seeming  at  a  loss 
what  to  do  with  themselves,  and  festooned  from  tree  to  tree, 
just  as  you  see  them  in  the  scenery  of  Fra  Diavolo.  And 
then  there  were  groups  of  people  in  costumes  of  picturesque 
negligence,  and  women  in  large  straw  hats,  and  dresses  of 
brilliant  colours,  just  like  the  chorus  of  an  opera.  The  deep, 
rich  hue  of  the  foliage  particularly  attracted  my  notice.  It 
was  as  different  from  the  foliage  of  New  England  as  Win- 
ship's  Gardens  are  from  an  invoice  of  palm-leaf  hats.  Be- 
yond the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  river  rose  up  beautiful 
hills  and  cliffs  like  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson.  Let  those 
who  will,  prefer  the  wild  grandeur  of  our  American  mountain 
scenery ;  there  is  a  great  charm  for  me  in  the  union  of  nature 
and  art.  The  careful  cultivation  of  the  fields  seems  to  set  off 
and  render  more  grand  and  austere  the  gray,  jagged  cliffs 


MARSEILLES,    LYONS,   AND   AIX  IN   SAVOY.         97 

that  overlook  them.  As  the  elder  Pliny  most  justly  re- 
marks, (lib.  iv.  cap.  xi.  24,)  "It  requires  the  lemon  as  well 
as  the  sugar  to  make  the  punch." 

After  about  an  hour's  sail  upon  the  river,  wc  camQ^  out 
upon  the  beautiful  Lake  of  Bourget.  It  was  stirred  by  a 
gentle  breeze,  but  it  seemed  as  if  its  bright  blue  surface  had 
never  reflected  a  cloud.  All  around  its  borders  the  trees 
and  vines  seemed  bending  down  to  drink  of  its  pure  waters. 
Far  off  in  the  distance  rose  up  the  mighty  peaks  of  the  Alps 

—  their  snow-white  tops  contrasting  with  the  verdure  of 
their  sides.  They  seemed  to  be  watching  with  pleasure 
over  the  glad  scenes  beneath  them,  like  old  men  whose 
gray  hairs  have  been  powerless  to  disturb  the  youthful 
freshness  and  geniality  of  their  hearts. 

At  St.  Innocent  I  landed,  and  underwent  the  custom 
bouse  formalities  attendant  upon  entrance  into  a  new  terri- 
tory. The  officials  were  very  expeditious,  and  equally  po- 
lite. I  at  first  supposed  that  the  letters  V.  E,,  which  each 
of  them  bore  conspicuously  on  his  cap,  meant  "  very  empty" 

—  but  it  afterwards  occurred  to  me  that  they  were  the 
initials  of  his  majesty,  the  King  of  Sardinia.  A  few  minutes' 
ride  over  the  "  Victor  Emmanuel  Eailway "  brought  me  to 
the  beautiful  village  of  Aix.  It  is  situated,  as  my  friend 
the  Lyonnese  barber  would  say,  in  "  a  deep  vale  shut  out  by 
Alpine  hills  from  the  rude  world."  It  possesses  about  2500 
inhabitants  ;  but  that  number  is  considerably  augmented  at 
present,  for  the  mineral  springs  of  Aix  are  very  celebra- 
ted, and  this  is  the  height  of  "  the  season."  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  what  is  called  "  society  "  here,  and  during  the 
morning  the  baths  are  crowded.  It  is  as  dull  as  all  water- 
ing places  necessarily  are,  and  twice  as  hot  I  think  that 
the  French  manage  these  things  better  than  we  do  in  Amer- 
ica. There  is  less  humbug,  less  display  of  jewelry  and 
dress,  and  a  vast  deal  more  of  common  sense  and  solid 

9 


88  AGUECHEEK. 

comfort  than  with  ns.  The  cafis  are  like  similar  estahlish- 
menta  in  all  such  places  —  an  abundance  of  ices  and 
ordinary  coffee,  and  a  plentiful  lack  of  newspapers.  I  have 
found  a  companion,  however,  who  more  than  makes  good 
the  latter  deficiency.  He  is  an  Englishman  of  some  seventy 
years,  who  is  here  bathing  for  his  gout  His  light  hair  and 
fresh  complexion  disguise  his  age  so  completely  that  most 
people,  when  they  see  us  together,  judge  me,  from  my  gray 
locks,  to  be  the  elder.  He  is  one  of  the  most  entertaining 
persons  I  have  ever  met  —  he  knows  the  classics  by  heart, 

—  is  familiar  with  English,  French,  Italian,  German,  and 
Spanish  literature,  —  speaks  nine  languages,  —  and  has 
travelled  all  over  the  world.  He  is  as  familiar  with  the 
Steppes  of  Tartary  as  with  "Wapping  Old  Stairs,  —  has  im- 
bibed sherbet  in  Damascus  and  sherry  cobblers  in  New 
York,  and  seen  a  lion  hunt  in  South  Africa.  But  his  heart 
is  the  heart  of  a  boy  —  "  age  cannot  wither  nor  custom 
stale "  its  infinite  geniality.  He  cannot  pass  by  a  beggar 
without  making  an  investment  for  eternity,  and  all  the 
babies  look  over  the  shoulders  of  their  nurses  to  smile  at 
him  a^  he  walks  the  streets.  I  mention  him  here  for  the 
sake  of  recording  one  of  his  opinions,  which  struck  me  by 
its  truth  and  originality.  We  were  sitting  in  a  cafk  last 
evening,  and,  after  a  long  conversation,  I  asked  him  what 
he  should  give  as  the  result  of  all  his  reading  and  observa- 
tions of  men  and  things,  and  all  his  experience,  if  he  were 
to  sum  it  up  in  one  sentence.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  removing  his 
meerschaum  from  his  mouth,  and  turning  towards  me  as  if 
to  give  additional  force  to  his  reply,  "  it  may  all  be  com- 
prised 'v\  this :  the  world  is  composed  of  two  classes  of  men 

—  natural  fools  and  d — d  fools ;  the  first  class  are  those 
who  have  never  made  any  pretensions,  or  have  reached  a 
just  appreciation  of  the  nothingness  of  all  human  acquire- 
ments and  hopes  ;  the  second  are  those  whose  belief  in  their 


MARSEILLES,   LYONS,   AND   AIX   IN   SAVOY.  99 

own  infallibility  has  never  been  disturbed ;  and  this  class 
includes  a  vast  number  of  every  rank,  from  the  profound 
German  philosopher,  who  thinks  that  he  has  fathomed  infin- 
ity, down  to  that  young  fop  twirling  his  moustache  at  the 
opposite  table,  and  flattering  himself  that  he  is  making  a 
great  impression." 

Savoy,  as  every  body  knows,  was  once  a  part  of  France, 
and  it  still  retains  all  of  its  original  characteristics.  I  have 
not  heard  ten  words  of  Italian  since  I  arrived  here,  and, 
judging  from  what  I  do  hear  and  from  the  tone  of  the  news- 
papers, it  would  like  to  become  a  part  of  France  again. 
The  Savoyards  are  a  religious,  steady-going  people,  and 
they  have  little  love  either  for  the  weak  and  dissolute 
monarch  who  governs  them,  or  for  the  powerful,  infidel 
prime  minister  who  governs  their  monarch.  The  high- 
pitched  roofs  of  the  houses  here  are  suggestive  of  the  snows 
of  winter ;  but  the  heat  reminds  me  of  the  coast  of  Africa 
during  a  sirocco.  How  true  is  Sydney  Smith's  remark, 
"  Man  only  lives  to  shiver  or  perspire  " !  The  thermometer 
ranges  any  where  from  80°  to  90°.  Can  this  be  the  legiti- 
mate temperature  of  these  mountainous  regions  ?  I  am 
"  ill  at  these  numbers,"  and  nothing  would  be  so  invigorating 
to  my  infirm  and  shaky  frame  as  a  sniflf  of  the  salt  breezes 
of  Long  Branch  or  Nantasket. 


AIX    TO    PARIS. 

There  is  no  need  of  telling  how  disgusted  I  became  with 
Aix-Ies-Bains  and  all  that  in  it  is,  after  a  short  residence 
there.  How  I  hated  those  strsiw-hatted  people  who  beset 
the  baths  from  the  earliest  flush  of  the  aurora !  How  I 
detested  those  fellows  who  were  constantly  pestering  me 
with  offers  (highly  advantageous,  without  doubt)  of  donkeys 
whereon  to  ride,  when  they  knew  that  I  didn't  want  one ! 
How  I  abominated  the  sight  of  a  man  (who  seemed  to  haunt 
me)  in  a  high  velvet-collared  coat  and  a  bell-crowned  hat 
just  overtopping  an  oily-looking  head  of  hair  and  bushy 
whiskers  —  who  looked,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  he  were  made 
up  for  Sir  Harcourt  Courtly  !  How  maliciously  he  held  on 
to  the  newspapers  in  the  cafe !  How  constantly  he  sat 
there  and  devoured  all  the  news  out  of  them  through  the 
medium  of  a  double  tortoise-shell  eye-glass,  which  always 
seemed  to  be  just  falling  off  his  nose  !  How  I  abhorred  the 
sight  of  those  waiters,  who  looked  as  if  the  season  were  a 
short  one,  and  time  (as  B.  Franklin  said)  was  money! 
How  stifling  was  the  atmosphere  of  that  "  seven-by-nine  " 
room  for  which  I  had  to  pay  so  dearly !  How  hot,  how 
dusty,  how  dull  it  was,  I  need  not  weary  you  by  telling ; 
suffice  it  to  say,  that  I  never  packed  my  trunk  more  will- 
ingly than  when  I  left  that  village.  I  am  very  glad  to 
have  been  there,  however,  for  the  satisfaction  I  felt  at  leav- 
ing the  place  is  worth  almost  any  effort  to  obtaii/.  The  joy 
of  departure  made  even  the  exorbitant  bills  seem  reasona- 
ble ;  and  when  I  thought  6f  the  stupidity  and  discomfort  I 
was  escaping  from,  I  felt  as  if,  come  what  might,  my  future 

(100) 


AIX   TO   PARIS.  101 

could  only  be  one  of  sunshine  and  content.  Aix-les-Bains 
is  one  of  the  pleasantest  places  to  leave  that  I  have  ever 
seen.  I  can  never  forget  the  measureless  happiness  of 
seeing  my  luggage  ticketed  for  Paris,  and  then  taking  my 
Beat  with  the  consciousness  that  I  was  leaving  Aix  (not 
aches,  alas  !)  behind  me. 

The  Lake  of  Bourget  was  as  beautiful  and  smiling  as  be- 
fore —  only  it  did  seem  as  if  the  sun  might  have  held  in  a 
little.  He  scorched  and  blistered  the  passengers  on  that 
steamboat  in  the  most  absurd  manner.  He  seemed  never 
to  have  heard  of  Horace,  and  was  consequently  entirely 
ignorant  of  the  propriety  of  maintaining  a  modus  in  his  re- 
buses. The  scenery  along  the  banks  of  the  Rhone  had  not 
changed  in  the  least,  but  was  as  romantic  and  theatrical 
as  ever.  At  Culoz  I  was  glad  to  get  on  shore,  for  like 
Hamlet,  I  had  been  "  too  much  i'  the  sun  ; "  so  I  left  the 
"  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone,"  (which  the  late  Lord 
Byron,  with  his  usual  disregard  of  truth,  talks  about,  and 
which  is  as  muddy  as  a  Medford  brick-yard,)  and  took 
refuge  in  the  hospitality  of  a  custom  house.  Here  I  fell 
into  a  meditation  upon  custom  house  officers.  I  wonder 
whether  the  custom  house  officers  of  France  are  in  their 
leisure  hours  given  to  any  of  the  vanities  which  delight 
their  American  brethren.  There  was  one  lean,  thoughtful- 
looking  man  among  those  at  Culoz  who  attracted  my  atten- 
tion. I  tried  ineffisctually  to  make  out  his  bent  from  his 
physiognomy.  I  could  not  imagine  him  occupying  his 
leisure  by  putting  any  twice-told  tales  on  paper  —  or  culti- 
vating Shanghai  poultry  —  or  riding  on  to  the  tented  field 
amid  the  roar  of  artillery  at  the  head  of  a  brigade  of  militia, 
—  and  I  was  obliged,  in  the  hurry  of  the  examination  of 
luggage,  to  give  him  up. 

I  had  several  times,  during  the  journey  from  Aix,  noticed 
a  tall,  uagle-eyed  man,  in  a  suit  of  gray,  and  wearing  a 
9* 


102  AGUECHEEK. 

moustache  of  the  same  colour,  and  while  we  were  waiting 
for  the  train  at  Culoz,  I  observed  that  he  attracted  a  great 
deal  of  attention  :  his  bearing  was  so  commanding,  that  I 
had  set  him  down  as  being  connected  witli  the  military  in- 
terest, before  I  noticed  that  he  did  not  bear  arms,  for  the 
left  sleeve  of  his  coat  hung  empty  and  useless  by  his  side ; 
60  I  ventured  to  inquire  concerning  him,  and  learned  that  I 
was  a  fellow-traveller  of  Marshal  Baraguay  d'Hilliers.  I 
must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  did  not  look  like  a 
man  who  would  leave  his  arms  on  the  field. 

We  were  soon  whirling,  and  puffing,  and  whistling  along 
through  the  tame  but  pleasing  landscape  of  France.  Those 
carefully-tilled  fields,  those  vineyards  almost  overflowing 
with  the  raw  material  of  conviviality,  those  interminable 
rows  of  tall  trees  which  seem  to  give  no  shade,  those  farm- 
houses, whose  walls  we  should  in  America  consider  strong 
enough  for  fortifications,  those  contented-looking  cattle,  those 
towns  that  seem  to  consist  of  a  single  street  and  an  old 
gray  tower,  with  a  dark-coloured  conical  top,  like  a  candle 
extinguisher,  —  all  had  a  good,  familiar  look  to  me;  and 
the  numerous  fields  of  Indian  corn  almost  made  me  think 
that  I  was  on  my  way  to  Worcester  or  Fitchburg.  I 
stopped  for  a  while  at  Macon,  (a  town  which  I  respect  for 
its  contributions  to  the  good  cheer  of  the  world,)  and  hugely 
enjoyed  a  walk  through  its  clean,  quiet  streets.  While  I  was 
waiting  at  the  station,  the  express  train  from  Paris  came 
along ;  and  many  of  the  passengers  left  their  places  (like 
Mr.  Squeers)  to  stretch  their  legs.  Among  them  was  a  man 
whose  acquisitive  eye,  black  satin  waistcoat,  fashionable 
hat,  (such  as  no  man  but  an  American  would  think  of  trav- 
elling in,)  and  coat  with  the  waist  around  his  hips,  and  six 
or  eight  inches  of  skirt,  immediately  fixed  my  attention. 
Before  I  thought,  he  had  asked  me  if  I  could  speak  Eng- 
lish.-   I  set  him  at  his  ease  by  answering  that  I  took  lessons 


AIX    TO    PAULS.  103 

in  it  once  when  I  was  young,  and  he  immediately  launched 
out  as  follows :  "  Well,  this  is  the  cussedest  language  I 
ever  did  hear.  I  don't  see  how  in  the  devil  these  blasted 
fools  can  have  lived  so  long  right  alongside  of  England 
without  trying  to  learn  the  English  language."  The 
whistle  of  the  engine  cut  short  the  declaration  of  his  senti- 
ments, and  he  was  whizzing  on  towards  Lyons  a  moment 
after.  "Whoever  that  man  may  have  been,  he  owes  it  to 
himself  and  his  country  to  write  a  book.  His  work  would 
be  as  worthy  of  consideration  as  the  writings  of  two  thirds 
of  our  English  and  American  travellers,  who  think  they 
are  qualified  to  write  about  the  government  and  social  con- 
dition of  a  country  because  they  have  travelled  through  it. 
Fancy  a  Frenchman,  entirely  ignorant  of  the  English 
tongue,  landing  at  Boston,  and  stopping  at  the  Tremont 
House  or  Parker's  ;  he  visits  the  State  House,  the  Athe- 
naeum, Bunker  Hill,  the  wharves,  &;c.  Then  on  Sunday 
he  wishes  to  know  something  about  the  religion  of  these 
strange  people ;  so  he  goes  across  the  street  to  the  King's 
Chapel,  and  finds  that  it  is  closed ;  so  he  walks  down  the 
street  in  the  burning  sun  to  Brattle  Street,  where  he  hears 
a  comfortable,  drony  kind  of  sermon,  which  seems  to  have 
as  composing  an  effect  upon  the  fifty  or  a  hundred  persons 
who  are  present  as  upon  himself.  In  the  afternoon  he  finds 
his  way  to  Trinity  Church,  (somebody  having  charitably 
told  him  that  that  is  the  most  genteel  place,)  and  there  he 
hears  "  our  admirable  liturgy  "  sonorously  read  out  to  twenty 
or  thirty  people,  all  of  whom  are  so  engrossed  in  their  de- 
votions that  the  responses  are  entirely  neglected.  Having 
had  enough  of  what  the  Irishman  called  the  English  leth- 
argy, he  returns  to  his  lodgings,  and  writes  in  his  note-book 
that  the  Americans  seldom  go  to  church,  and  when  they  do, 
go  there  to  sleep  in  comfortable  pews.  Then  he  makes 
a  little  tour  of  a   fortnight  to   New  Haven,  Providence, 


104  AGUECUEEK. 

Springfield,  &c.,  and  returns  to  France  to  write  a  book  of 
travels  in  New  England.  And  what  are  all  his  observa- 
tions worth  ?  I'll  tell  you.  They  are  worth  just  as  much, 
and  give  exactly  as  faithful  a  representation  of  the  state  of 
society  in  New  England,  as  four  fifths  of  the  books  written 
by  English  and  American  travellers  in  France,  Spain,  and 
Italy,  do  of  the  condition  of  those  countries. 
,  I  have  encountered  many  interesting  studies  of  humanity 
here  on  the  continent  in  my  day.  I  have  met  many  people 
who  have  come  abroad  with  a  vague  conviction  that  travel 
improves  one,  and  who  do  not  see  that  to  visit  Europe 
without  some  preparation  is  like  going  a-fishing  without 
line  or  bait.  They  appear  to  think  that  some  great  benefit 
is  to  be  obtained  by  passing  over  a  certain  space  of  land* 
and  water,  and  being  imposed  upon  to  an  unlimited  extent  by 
a  horde  of  commissionaires,  ciceroni,  couriers,  and  others, 
who  find  in  their  ignorance  and  lack  of  common  sense  a 
source  of  wealth.  I  met,  the  other  day,  a  gentleman  from 
one  of  the  Western  States,  who  said  that  he  was  "  putting 
up  "  at  Meurice's  Hotel,  but  didn't  think  much  of  it :  if  it 
had  not  been  for  some  English  people  whom  he  fell  in  with 
on  the  way  from  Calais,  he  should  have  gone  to  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  which  he  supposed,  from  the  pictures  he  had  seen, 
must  be  a  "  fust  class  house  " !  I  have  within  a  few  hours 
seen  an  American,  who  could  not  ask  the  simplest  question 
in  French,  but  thinks  that  he  shall  stop  three  or  four  weeks, 
and  learn  the  language !  I  have  repeatedly  met  people 
who  told  me  that  they  had  come  out  to  F^urope  "jest  to  see 
the  place."  But  it  is  not  alone  such  ignoramuses  as  these 
who  merit  the  pity  or  contempt  of  the  judicious  and  sen- 
sible. Their  folly  injures  no  one  but  themselves.  The 
same  cannot  be  said,  however,  of  the  authors  of  the  nu- 
merous duodecimos  of  foreign  travel  which  burden  the 
booksellers*  counters.     They  have  supposed  that  they  can 


AIX   TO   PARIS.  105 

sketch  a  nation's  character  by  looking  at  its  towns  from  the 
windows  of  an  express  train.  They  presume  to  write 
about  the  social  life  of  France  or  Italy,  while  they  are 
ignorant  of  any  language  but  their  own,  and  do  not  know  a 
single  French  or  Italian  family.  Victims  of  a  bitter  preju- 
dice against  those  countries  and  their  institutions,  they  are 
prepared  beforehand  to  be  shocked  and  disgusted  at  all 
they  see.  Like  Sterne's  Smelfungus,  they  "  set  out  with 
the  spleen  -and  jaundice,  and  every  object  they  pass  by  is 
discoloured  or  distorted."  Kenelm  Digby  wisely  remarks 
that  one  of  the  great  advantages  of  journeying  beyond  sea, 
to  a  man  of  sense  and  feeling,  is  the  spectacle  of  general 
travellers :  "  it  will  prevent  his  being  ever  again  imposed 
upon  by  these  birds  of  passage,  when  they  record  their 
adventures  and  experience  on  returning  to  the  north." 

Dijon  is  a  fine  old  city.  Every  body  knows  that  it  used 
to  be  the  capital  of  Burgundy,  but  to  the  general  reader  it 
is  more  particularly  interesting  as  being  the  place  to  which 
Mrs.  Dombey  and  Mr.  Carker  fled  after  the  elopement. 
There  is  a  fine  cathedral  and  public  library,  and  the  whole 
place  has  an  eminently  Burgundian  flavour  which  makes  one 
regret  that  he  got  tired  so  soon  when  he  tried  to  read  Frois- 
sart's  Chronicles.  There  is  a  church  there  which  was 
desecrated  during  the  old  revolution,  and  is  now  used  as 
a  market-house.  It  bears  an  inscription  which  presents 
a  satirical  commentary  on  its  recent  history :  "  Domine, 
dilexi  decorem  domus  tiue ! "  The  Dijon  gingerbread 
(which  the  people,  in  their  ignorance  and  lack  of  our 
common  school  advantages,  call  pain  d'epice)  would  really 
merit  a  diploma  from  that  academy  of  connoisseurs,  the 
Massachusetts  House  of  Representatives.  But  Dombey 
and  Dijon  are  all  forgotten  in  our  first  glimpse  of  the  "  gay 
capital  of  bewildering  France."  There  lay  Paris,  spar- 
kling under  the  noonday  sun.     The  sight  of  its  domes  and 


106  AGUECHEEK. 

monuments  awoke  all  my  fellow-travellers :  shabby  caps 
and  handkerchiefs  were  exchanged  for  hats  and  bonnets, 
which  gave  their  wearers  an  air  of  respectability  perfectly 
uncalled  for.  We  were  soon  inside  the  fortifications,  which 
have  been  so  outgrown  by  the  city  that  one  hardly  notices 
them ;  and,  aAer  the  usual  luggage  examination,  I  found 
myself  in  an  omnibus,  and  once  more  on  the  Boulevards. 

And  what  a  good,  comfortable  home-feeling  it  was ! 
There  were  the  old,  familiar  streets,  the  well-known  adver- 
tisements, painted  conspicuously,  in  blue,  and  green,  and 
gold,  on  what  would  else  have  been  a  blank,  unsightly 
wall,  and  inviting  me  to  purchase  cloths  and  cashmeres ;  *' 
there  were  the  same  ceaseless  tides  of  life  ebbing  and 
flowing  through  those  vast  thoroughfares,  the  same  glossy 
beavers,  the  same  snowy  caps  and  aprons,  the  same  blouses, 
the  same  polite,  s'il  vous-plait,  pardon,  m'sieur,  take-it-easy 
air,  that  Paris,  as  seen  from  an  omnibus  window,  always 
presents.  "We  rolled  through  the  Rue  St.  Antoine,  and  it 
was  hard  to  realize  that  it  had  ever  been  the  theatre  of  so 
much  appalling  history.  I  tried  to  imagine  the  barricades, 
the  street  ploughed  up  by  artillery,  and  that  heroic  martyr, 
Archbishop  Affre,  falling  there,  and  praying  that  his  blood 
might  be  the  last  shed  in  that  fratricidal  strife  ;  but  it 
was  useless  ;  the  lively  present  made  the  past  seem  but  the 
mere  invention  of  the  historian.  All  traces  of  the  frightful 
scenes  of  1848  have  been  effaced,  and  the  facilities  for  bar- 
ricades have  been  disposed  of  in  a  way  that  must  make 
red  republicanism  very  disrespectful  to  the  memory  of 
MacAdam.  As  we  passed  a  church  in  that  bloody  locality, 
a  wedding  party  came  out ;  the  bridegroom  looked  as  if  he 
had  taken  chloroform  to  enable  him  to  get  through  his  dif- 
ficulties, and  the  effect  of  it  had  not  entirely  passed  ofF- 
The  bride  (for  women,  you  know,  have  greater  power  of 
endurance  than  men)  seemed  to  take  it  more  easily,  and, 


AIX  TO  PARIS.  107 

beaming  in  the  midst  of  a  sort  of  wilderness  of  lace,  and 
gauze,  and  muslin,  like  a  lighthouse  in  a  fog,  she  tripped 
briskly  into  the  carriage,  with  a  bouquet  in  her  hand,  and 
happiness  in  her  heart.  Before  the  bridal  party  got  fairly 
out  of  sight,  a  funeral  came  along.  The  white  pall  showed 
that  it  was  a  child  who  slept  upon  the  bier  ;  for  the  Cath- 
olic church  does  not  mourn  over  those  who  are  removed 
from  the  temptations  of  life  before  they  have  known  them. 
The  vehicles  all  gave  way  to  let  the  little  procession  pass, 
the  hum  seemed  to  cease  for  a  moment,  every  head  was 
uncovered,  even  the  porter  held  his  burden  on  his  shoulder 
with  one  hand  that  he  might  pay  his  respects  to  that  sover- 
eign to  whom  even  republicans  are  obliged  to  bow,  and  the 
many-coloured  hats  of  the  omnibus  drivers  were  doffed.  I 
had  often  before  noticed  those  striking  contrasts  that  one 
sees  in  a  capital  like  Paris  ;  but  to  meet  such  a  one  at  my 
very  entrance  impressed  me  deeply.  Such  is  Paris.  You 
think  it  the  liveliest  place  in  the  world,  (and  so  it  is ; )  but 
suddenly  you  come  upon  something  that  makes  you  thought- 
ful, if  it  does  not  sadden  you.  Life  and  death  elbow  and 
jostle  each  other  along  these  gay  streets,  until  it  seems  as 
if  they  were  rivals  striving  to  drive  each  other  out.  I  en- 
tered a  church  a  day  or  two  since.  There  was  a  funeral  at 
the  high  altar.  The  black  vestments  and  hangings,  the 
lighted  tapers,  the  solemn  chant  of  the  De  profundis  were 
eloquent  of  death  and  what  must  follow  it.  I  was  startled 
by  hearing  a  child's  cry,  and  looking  round  into  the  chapel 
which  served  as  a  baptistery,  there  stood  two  young  mothers 
who  had  just  received  their  infants  from  that  purifying 
laver  which  made  them  members  of  the  great  Christian 
family.  I  never  before  had  that  beautiful  thought  of  Cha- 
teaubriand's so  forced  upon  me  —  "  Religion  has  rocked  us 
in  the  cradle  of  life,  and  her  maternal  hand  shall  close  our 
eyes,  while  her  holiest  melodies  soothe  us  to  rest  in  the 
cradle  of  death." 


108  AGUECHEEK. 

There  are,  without  doubt,  many  persons,  who  can  say 
that  in  their  pilgrimage  of  life  they  have  truly  "  found  their 
warmest  welcome  at  an  inn."  My  experience  outstrips 
that,  for  I  have  received  one  of  my  most  cordial  greetings 
in  a  cafi.  The  establishment  in  question  is  so  eminently 
American,  that  I  should  feel  as  if  I  had  neglected  a  sacred 
duty,  if  I  did  not  describe  it,  for  the  benefit  of  future  so- 
journers in  the  French  capital,  who  are  hereby  requested 
to  overhaul  their  memorandum  books  and  make  a  note  of  it. 
It  does  not  boast  the  magnificence  and  luxury  of  the 
Cafe,  de  Paris,  Very's,  the  Trois  Freres  Provenpaux,  nor 
of  Taylor's;  nor  does  it  thrust  itself  forward  into  the  pub- 
licity of  the  gay  Boulevards,  or  of  the  thronged  arcades  of 
the  Palais  Royal.  It  does  not  appeal  to  those  who  love 
the  noise  and  dust  of  fashion's  highway  ;  for  them  it  has  no 
welcome.  But  to  those  who  love  "  the  cool,  sequestered 
path  of  life,"  it  offers  a  degree  of  quiet  comfort,  to  which 
the  "  slaves  of  passion,  avarice,  and  pride,"  who  view  them- 
selves in  the  mirrors  of  the  Maison  Doree,  are  strangers. 
You  turn  from  the  Boulevard  des  Italieiis  into  the  Rite  de 
la  Michodiere,  which  you  perambulate  until  you  come  to 
number  six,  where  you  will  stop  and  take  an  observation. 
Peihaps  wonder  will  predominate  over  admiration.  The 
front  of  the  establishment  does  not  exceed  twelve  feet  in 
width,  and  the  sign  over  the  door  shows  that  it  is  a  Crime- 
rie.  The  fact  is  also  adumbrated  symbolically  by  a  large 
brass  can,  which  Is  set  over  the  portal.  In  one  of  the  win- 
dows may  be  observed  a  neatly-executed  placard,  to  this 
effect : — 

Aux  Americains 

Sp^cialit^. 
Pumpkin  Pie. 


AIX  TO  PARIS.  109 

"  Enter  —  its  vastness  overwhelms  thee  not ! "  On  the 
contrary,  having  passed  through  the  little  front  shop,  you 
stand  in  a  room  ten  or  twelve  feet  square  — just  the  size  of 
Washington  Irving's  "  empire,"  in  the  Red  Horse  Inn,  at 
Stratford.  This  little  room  is  furnished  with  two  round 
tables,  a  sideboard,  and  several  chairs,  and  is  decorated 
with  numerous  crayon  sketches  of  the  knights  of  the  afore- 
said round  tables.  You  make  the  acquaintance  of  the 
excellent  Madame  Busque,  and  order  your  dinner,  which  is 
served  promptly  and  with  a  motherly  care,  which  will  at 
first  remind  you  of  the  time  when  your  bib  was  carefully 
tied  on,  and  you  were  lifted  to  a  seat  on  the  family  Bible, 
which  had  been  placed  on  a  chair,  to  bring  the  juvenile 
mouth  into  proper  relations  with  the  table. 

Nothing  can  surpass  the  home  feeling  that  took  posses- 
sion of  me  when  I  found  myself  once  more  in  Madame 
Busque's  little  back  room  at  No.  6,  Rue  de  la  Michodiere. 
How  cordial  was  that  estimable  lady's  welcome !  She 
made  herself  as  busy  as  a  cat  with  one  chicken,  and  pre- 
pared for  me  a  "tired  nature's  sweet  restorer"  in  the 
shape  of  one  of  her  famous  omelets.  The  old  den  had  not 
changed  in  the  least.  Madame  Busque  used  to  threaten 
occasionally  to  paint  it,  and  otherwise  improve  and  embel- 
lish it ;  but  we  always  told  her  that  if  she  did  any  thing  of 
that  kind,  or  tried  to  render  it  less  dingy,  or  snug,  or  up- 
pretending,  we  would  never  eat  another  of  her  pumpkin 
pies.  Not  all  the  mirrors  and  magnificence  of  the  resorts 
of  fashion  can  equal  the  quiet  cosiness  of  Madame  Busque's 
back  room.  You  meet  all  kinds  of  company  there.  The 
blouse  is  at  home  there,  as  well  as  its  ambitious  cousin,  the 
broadcloth  coat.  Law  and  medicine,  literature  and  art, 
pleasure  and  honest  toil,  meet  there  upon  equal  terms. 
Our  own  aristocratic  Washington  never  dreamed  of  such  a 
10 


110  AGDECHEEK. 

democracy  as  his  calm  portrait  looks  down  upon  in  that 
room.  Then  we  have  such  a  delightful  neighbourhood  there. 
I  feel  as  if  the  charcoal  woman  of  the  next  door  but  one 
below  was  some  relation  to  me  —  at  least  an  aunt;  she 
always  has  a  pleasant  word  and  a  smile  for  the  frequenters 
of  No.  6  ;  and  then  it  is  so  disinterested  on  her  part,  for  we 
can  none  of  us  need  any  of  her  charcoal.  I  hope  that  no 
person  who  reads  this  will  be  misled  by  it,  and  go  to  Ma- 
dame Busque's  cremerie  expecting  to  find  there  the  variety 
which  the  restaurants  boast,  for  he  will  be  disappointed. 
But  he  will  find  every  thing  there  of  the  best  description. 
My  taste  in  food  (as  in  most  other  matters)  is  a  very  cath- 
olic one :  I  can  eat  beef  with  the  English,  garlic  and  on- 
ions with  the  French,  sourkrout  with  the  Germans,  maca- 
roni with  the  Italians,  pilaf  with  the  Turks,  baked  beans 
with  the  Yankees,  hominy  with  the  southerners,  and  oysters 
with  any  body.  But  as  I  feel  age  getting  the  better  of  me 
day  by  day,  I  think  I  grow  to  be  more  and  more  of  a  pre- 
Raphaelite  in  these  things.  So  I  crave  nothing  more  lux- 
urious than  a  good  steak  or  chop,  with  the  appropriate 
vegetables  ;  and  these  are  to  be  had  in  their  perfection  at 
Madame  Busque's.     My  benison  upon  her  ! 

The  canicular  weather  I  suffered  from  in  the  south  fol- 
lowed me  even  here.  I  found  every  body  talking  about  the 
extraordinary  chaleur.  Shade  of  John  Rogers !  how  tJie 
sun  has  glared  down  upon  Paris,  day  after"  day,  without 
winking,  until  air-tight  stoves  are  refrigerators  compared 
to  it,  and  even  old-fashioned  preaching  is  outdone !  How 
the  asphalte  sidewalks  of  the  Boulevards  have  melted  under 
his  rays,  and  perfumed  the  air  with  any  thing  but  a  Sabaean 
odour!  The  fragrance  of  the  linden  trees  was  entirely 
overpowered.  The  thought  of  the  helmets  of  the  cavalry 
was  utterly  intolerable.     Tortoni's    and  the  cafes  were 


AIX   TO    PARIS."  Ill 

crowded.  Great  Was  the  clamour  for  ices.  Greater  still 
was  the  rush  to  the  cool  shades  of  the  public  gardens,  or 
the  environs  of  Bougival  and  Marly.  At  last,  the  welcome 
r&in  came  hissing  down  upon  these  heated  roofs ;  and  mal- 
heur  to  the  man  who  ventures  out  during  these  days  with- 
out his  umbrella.  It  has  been  a  rain  of  terror.  It  almost 
spoilt  the  great  national  fete  of  the  15th ;  but  the  people 
made  the  best  of  it,  and,  between  the  free  theatrical  per- 
formances at  sixteen  theatres,  the  superb  illuminations,  and 
the  fireworks,  seemed  to  have  a  very  merry  time.  I  went 
in  the  morning  to  that  fine  lofty  old  church,  (whose  Lady 
Chapel  is  a  splendid  monument  of  Couture's  artistic  genius,) 
St.  Eustache,  where  I  heard  a  new  mass,  by  one  Mr. 
L'Hote.  It  was  well  executed,  and  the  orchestral  parts 
.vere  particularly  effective.  After  the  mass,  the  annual 
Te  Deum  for  the  Emperor  was  sung.  The  effect  of  the 
latter  was  very  grand ;  indeed,  when  it  was  finished,  I  was 
just  thinking  that  it  was  impossible  for  music  to  surpass  it, 
when  the  full  orchestra  and  two  organs  united  in  a  burst  of 
harmony  that  almost  lifted  me  off  my  feet  I  recognized' 
the  old  Gregorian  anthem  that  is  sung  every  Sunday  in  all 
the  churches,  and  when  it  had  been  played  through,  the 
trumpets  took  up  the  air  of  the  chant,  above  the  rest  of  the 
accompaniment,  and>  the  clear,  alto  voice  of  one  of  those 
scarlet-capped  choir-boys  rang  out  the  words,  Domine,  sal- 
vum  fac  imperatorem  nostrum,  Napoleonem,  in  a  way  that 
seemed  to  make  those  old  arches  vibrate,  and  wonderfully 
quickened  the  circulation  in  the  veins  of  every  listener.  It 
was  like  the  gradual  mounting  and  heaving  up  of  a  high 
sea  in  a  storm  on  the  Atlantic,  which,  when  it  has  reached 
a  pitch  you  thought  impossible,  curls  majestically  over,  and, 
breaking  into  a  creamy  foam,  loses  itself  in  a  transitory 
vision  of  emerald  brilliancy,  that  for  the  moment  realizes 


112  AGUECHEEK. 

the  most  gorgeous  and  improbable  fables  of  Eastern  luxury. 
It  made  even  me,  notwithstanding  my  prejudices  in  favour 
of  republicanism,  forget  the  spread  eagle,  and  my  free  (and 
easy)  native  land,  and  for  several  hours  I  found  myself 
singing  that  solemn  anthem  over  in  a  most  impressive  man- 
ner.     Vive  fEmpereurf 


PARIS. 

This  is  a  wonderful  city.  It  seems  to  me,  as  I  ride  up 
and  down  the  gay  Boulevards  on  the  roof  of  an  omnibus,  or 
gaze  into  the  brilliant  shop-windows  of  the  Palais  Royal, 
or  watch  the  happy  children  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries, 
or  stand  upon  the  bridges  and  take  in  as  much  as  I  can  at 
once-  of  gardens,  palaces,  and  church  towers  —  it  seems  to 
me  like  a  great  theatre,  filled  with  gay  company,  to  whom 
the  s^me  grand  spectacle  is  always  being  shown,  and  whose 
faces  always  reflect  something  of  that  brilliancy  which  lights 
up  the  gorgeous,  never-ending,  last  scene  of  the  drama.  I 
know  that  the  play  has  its  underplot  of  vicious  poverty  and 
crime,  but  they  shrink  from  the  glare  of  the  footlights  and 
the  radiance  of  the  red  fire  that  lights  up  the  scene.  Taken 
in  the  abstract  —  taken  as  it  appears  from  the  outside  — 
Paris  is  the  most  perfect  whole  the  world  can  show.  It 
was  a  witty  remark  of  a  well-known  citizen  of  Boston, 
touching  the  materialistic  views  of  many  of  his  friends,  that 
"  when  good  Boston  people  die,  they  go  to  Paris."  I  know 
many  whose  highest  idea  of  heaven  would  find  its  embodi- 
ment in  the  sunshine  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  or  the  gas 
light  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  Paris  captivates  you  at  once. 
In  this  it  differs  from  Rome.  You  do  not  grow  to  love  it ; 
you  feel  its  charms  before  you  have  recovered  from  the  fa- 
tigue of  your  journey  —  before  you  have  even  reached  your 
hotel,  as  you  ride  along  and  recognize  the  buildings  and 
monuments  which  books  and  pictures  have  made  familiar. 
In  Rome  all  is  different.  Michel  Angelo's  mighty  dome,  to 
be  sore,  does  impress  you,  as  you  come  to  the  city  ;  but  when 
10  •  (113) 


114  A(;UECHKEK. 

you  enter,  the  narrow  streets  are  such  a  contrast  to  the  broad, 
free  campagna  you  have  just  left,  that  you  feel  oppressed 
and  cramped  as  you  ride  through  them.  You  find  one  of 
the  old  temples  kept  in  repair  and  serving  as  a  custom 
house ;  this  is  a  damper  at  the  outset,  and  you  sigh  for 
something  to  revive  the  ancient  customs  of  the  world's 
capital.  You  walk  into  the  Forum  the  next  day,  musing 
upon  the  line  of  the  twelve  Cfesars,  and  your  progress  is 
arrested,  and  your  sense  of  the  dramatic  unities  of  your 
position  deeply  wounded,  by  an  unamusing  and  prosaic 
clothes-line.  You  keep  on  and  try  to  recall  Cicero,  and 
Catiline,  and  Jugurtha,  and  Servius  Tullius,  and  Brutus, 
and  Virginius, —  but  it  is  useless,  for  you  find  a  cow  feeding 
there  as  quietly  as  if  she  were  on  the  hills  of  Berkshire. 
The  whole  city  seems  sad  and  mouldy,  and  out  of  date,  and 
you  think  you  will  "  do  the  sights  "  as  rapidly  as  possible, 
and  then  be  off.  But  before  many  days  you  find  that  all 
is  changed.  The  moss  that  clothes  those  broken  walls  be- 
comes as  venerable  in  your  sight  as  the  gray  hairs  upon 
your  mother's  brow  ;  the  ivy  that  enwreathes  those  old 
towers  and  columns  seems  to  have  wound  itself  around  your 
heart  and  bound  it  forever  to  that  spot.  Clothes-lines,  dirt, 
and  all  the  inconveniences  inseparable  from  the  older  civili- 
zation of  Rome,  fade  away.  The  Forum,  the  Palace  of  the 
Caesars,  the  Appian  Way,  all  become  instinct  with  a  new  — 
or  rather  with  their  old  life  ;  and  you  feel  that  you  are  in 
the  Rome  of  Livy  and  Sallust,  —  you  have  found  the  Rome 
of  which  you  dreamed  in  boyhood,  and  you  are  happy. 
With  Paris,  as  I  have  said,  you  are  not  obliged  to  servo 
such  an  apprenticeship.  You  have  read  of  Paris  in  history, 
in  novels,  in  guide-books,  in  the  lucubrations  of  the  whole 
tribe  of  correspondents  —  you  recognize  it  at  once  on  seeing 
it,  and  accept  it  for  all  that  it  pretends  to  be.  And  you  are 
not  deceived.     And  this,  I  apprehend,  is  the  reason  why  we 


PARIS.  115 

never  feel  that  deep,  clinging  affection  for  Paris  that  we  do 
for  that  "goddess  of  all  the  nations,  to  whom  nothing  is 
equal  and  nothing  second "  —  that  city  which  (as  one  of 
her  prophet-poets  said)  shall  ever  be  "  the  capital  of  the 
world,  for  whatever  her  arms  have  not  conquered  shall  be 
hers  by  religion."  You  feel  that  Paris  is  the  capital  of 
Europe,  and  you  bow  before  it  as  you  would  before  a  sov- 
ereign whose  word  was  law. 

I  wonder  whether  every  body  judges  of  all  new  things  by 
the  criterion  of  childhood,  as  I  find  myself  constantly  doing. 
Whatever  it  may  be,  I  apply  to  it  the  test  of  my  youthful 
recollections  of  something  similar,  and  it  almost  always  suf- 
fers by  the  process.  Those  beautiful  architectural  wonders 
that  pierce  the  sky  at  Strasburg  and  Antwerp  will  bear  no 
comparison,  in  point  of  height,  with  the  steeple  of  the  Old 
South  as  it  exists  in  the  memory  of  my  childhood.  I 
have  never  seen  a  picture  gallery  in  Europe  which  awa- 
kened any  thing  like  my  old  feelings  on  visiting  one  of  the 
first  Athenaeum  exhibitions  many  years  ago.  Those  won- 
derful productions  of  Horace  Vernet,  in  which  one  may 
read  the  warlike  history  of  France,  are  nothing  compared 
to  my  recollections  of  Trumbull's  "  Sortie  of  Gibraltar,"  as 
seen  through  an  antediluvian  tin  trumpet  which  considera- 
bly interfered  with  my  vision,  but  which  I  thought  it  was 
necessary  to  use.  I  have  visited  libraries  which  antedated 
by  centuries  the  discovery  of  America,  —  I  have  rambled 
over  castles  which  seemed  to  recho  with  the  clank  of  ar- 
mour and  the  clarion  calls  of  the  old  days  of  chivalry,  —  I 
have  walked  through  the  long  corridors  and  halls  of  the 
Vatican  with  cardinals  and  kings,  —  I  have  mused  in 
church-crypts  and  cloisters,  in  whose  silent  shade  the  dead 
of  a  thousand  years  reposed,  —  but  I  have  never  yet  been 
impressed  with  any  thing  like  the  awe  which  the  old  Athe- 
naeum in  Pearl  Street  used  to  inspire  into  my  boyish  hearU 


116  AGUBCHEEK. 

Pearl  Street  in  those  days  was  as  innocent  of  traffic  and  its 
turmoil  as  the  quiet  roads  around  Jamaica  Pond  are  now. 
A  pasture,  in  which  the  Hon.  Jonathan  Phillips  kept  a  cow, 
extended  through  to  Oliver  Street,  and  handsome  old-fash- 
ioned private  houses  with  gardens  around  them  occupied  the 
place  of  the  present  rows  of  granite  warehouses.  The 
Athenaeum,  surrounded  by  torse-chestnut  trees,  stood  there 
in  aristocratic  dignity  and  repose,  which  it  seemed  almost 
sacrilegious  to  disturb  with  the  noise  of  our  childish  sports. 
There  were  a  few  old  gentlemen  who  used  to  frequent  its 
reading-room,  whose  white  hair,  (and  some  of  them  even 
wore  knee  breeches  and  queues  and  powder,)  always  stilled 
our  boyish  clamour  as  we  played  on  the  grass-plots  in  the 
yard.  To  some  of  these  old  men  our  heads  were  often  un- 
covered, —  for  children  were  politer  in  those  days  than  now, 
—  and  to  our  young  imagination  it  seemed  as  if  they  were 
sages,  who  carried  about  with  them  an  atmosphere  of  learn- 
ing and  the  fragrance  of  academic  groves.  They  seemed  as 
much  a  part  of  the  mysterious  old  establishment  as  the 
books  in  the  library,  the  dusty  busts  in  the  entries,  or  the 
old  librarian  himself.  Sometimes  I  used  to  venture  into 
those  still  passages,  and  steal  a  look  into  that  reading-room 
■whose  quiet  was  never  broken,  save  by  the  wealthy  creak 
of  some  old  citizen's  boots,  or  by  the  long  breathing  of  some 
venerable  frequenter  of  the  place,  enjoying  his  afternoon 
nap.  In  later  years  I  came  to  know  the  Athenjeum  more 
familiarly  ;  the  old  gentlemen  lost  the  character  of  sages  and 
became  estimable  individuals  of  quiet  tastes,  who  were  fa- 
tiguing the  Massachusetts  Hospital  Life  Insurance  Com- 
pany by  their  long-continued  perusal  of  the  Daily  Advertiser 
and  the  Gentleman's  Magazine ;  but  my  old  impression  of 
the  awful  mystery  of  the  building  remains  to  this  day.  I 
mourned  over  the  removal  to  the  present  fine  position,  and 
I  seek  in  vain  amid  the  stucco-work  and  white  paint  of  the 


PARia.  117 

new  edifice  for  the  charm  which  enthralled  rae  in  the  old 
home  of  the  institution.  Some  people,  carried  away  by  the 
utilitarian  spirit  of  the  age,  may  think  that  it  is  a  great  im- 
provement ;  but  to  me  it  seems  nothing  but  an  unwarrant- 
able innovation  on  the  established  order  of  things,  and  a 
change  for  the  worse.  Where  is  the  quiet  of  the  old  place  ? 
Younger  and  less  reverential  men  have  risen  up  in  the 
places  of  the  old,  and  have  destroyed  all  that  rendered  the 
old  library  respectable.  The  good  old  times  when  Dr. 
Bass,  the  hbrarian,  sat  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  the 
late  John  Bromfield  (with  his  silk  handkerchief  spread 
over  his  knees)  on  the  other,  and  read  undisturbed  for 
hours,  have  passed  away.  A  hundred  persons  use  the  libra- 
ry now  for  one  who  did  then ;  and  I  am  lefl  to  feed  upon 
the  memory  of  better  times,  when  learning  was  a  quiet, 
comfortable,  select  sort  of  thing,  and  mutter  secret  maledic- 
tions on  the  revolutionary  spirits  who  have  made  it  otherwise. 

But  pardon  me,  dear  reader,  —  all  this  has  little  to  do 
with  Paris,  except  by  way  of  illustration  of  my  remark  that 
the  youthful  standard  of  intellectual  weights  and  measures  is 
the  only  infallible  one  we  ever  know.  But  Paris  is  some- 
thing by  itself:  it  overrides  all  standards  of  greatness  or 
beauty,  and  all  preconceived  notions  of  itself,  and  addresses 
itself  with  confidence  to  every  taste.  Ladies  love  Paris  as 
a  vast  warehouse  of  jewelry  and  all  the  rich  stuffs  that  hide 
the  crinoline  from  eyes  profane.  Physicians  revel  in  its 
hospitals,  and  talk  of  "  splendid  operations,"  such  as  make 
the  unscientific  change  colour. 

Paris  is  a  world  in  itself.  Here  may  the  Yankee  find 
his  pumpkin-pie  and  sherry-cobblers,  the  Englishman  his 
roihif,  the  German  his  sauerkraut,  the  Italian  his  macaro- 
ni. Here  may  the  lover  of  dramatic  art  choose  his  per- 
formance among  thirty  theatres,  and  he  who,  with  Mr, 
Swiveller,  loves  "  the  mazy,"  will  find  at  the  Jardin  Mabille 


118  AGUECHEEK. 

a  bower  shaded  for  him.  Here  the  bookworm  can  mouse 
about,  in  more  than  twenty  large  public  libraries,  and  spend 
weeks  in  the  delightful  exploration  of  countless  bookstalls. 
Here  the  student  of  art  can  read  the  history  of  France  on 
Uie  walls  of  Versailles,  or,  revelling  in  the  opulence  of  the 
Louvre,  forget  his  studies,  his  technicalities,  his  criticisms, 
in  contemplation  of  the  majestic  loveliness  of  Murillo's  "  sin- 
less Mother  of  the  sinless  Child."  Here  may  "  fireside  phi- 
lanthropists, great  at  the  pen,"  compare  their  magnificent 
theories  with  the  works  of  delicate  ladies  who  have  left  the 
wealth  they  possessed  and  the  society  they  adorned,  for  the 
bumble  garb  of  the  Sister  of  Charity  and  a  laborious  min- 
istry to  the  poor,  the  diseased,  and  the  infirm,  and  medi- 
tate in  the  cool  quadrangles  of  hospitals  and  benevolent  in- 
stitutions, founded  by  saints,  and  preserved  in  their  integrity 
by  the  piety  of  their  disciples.  Here  may  the  man  who 
wishes  to  look  beyond  this  brilliant  world,  find  churches  ever 
open,  inviting  to  prayer  and  meditation,  where  he  may  be 
carried  beyond  himself  by  the  choicest  strains  of  Haydn 
and  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the  Gregorian  Chant,  —  or  may 
be  thrilled  by  the  eloquent  periods  of  Ravignan  or  Lacor- 
daire,  until  the  unseen  eternal  fills  his  whole  soul,  and  the 
visible  temporal  glories  of  the  gay  capital  seem  to  him  the 
transient  vanities  they  really  are. 

How  few  people  really  know  Paris !  To  most  minds  it 
presents  itself  only  as  a  place  of  general  pleasure-seeking 
and  dissipation.  I  have  seen  many  men  whose  only  recol- 
lections of  Paris  were  such  as  will  give  them  no  pleasure 
in  old  age,  who  flattered  themselves  that  they  knew  Paris. 
They  thought  that  the  whole  city  was  given  up  to  the  folly 
that  captivated  them,  and  so  they  represent  Paris  as  one 
vast  reckless  masquerade.  I  have  seen  others  who,  walking 
through  the  thronged  cafes  and  restaurants,  have  felt  them- 
selves justified  in  declaring  that  the  French  had  no  domes- 


PAMS.  119 

tic  life,  and  were  as  ignorant  of  family  joys  as  their  lan- 
guage is  destitute  of  a  single  word  to  express  our  good  old 
Saxon  word  "  home  ; "  not  knowing  that  there  are  in  Paris 
thousands  of  families  as  closely  knit  together  as  any  that 
dwell  in  the  smoky  cities  of  Old  England,  or  amid  the 
bustle  and  activity  of  our  new  world.  Good  people 
may  turn  up  their  eyes,  and  talk  and  write  as  many  jere- 
miads as  they  will  about  the  vanity  and  wickedness  of 
Paris  ;  but  the  truth  is,  that  this  gi'eat  Babel  has  even  for 
them  its  cheering  side,  if  they  would  but  keep  their  eyes 
open  to  discover  it.  Let  them  visit  the  churches  on  the 
vigils  of  great  feasts,  and  every  Saturday,  and  see  the 
crowds  that  throng  the  confessionals  :  let  them  rise  an  hour 
or  two  earlier  than  usual,  and  go  into  any  of  the  churches, 
and  they  will  find  more  worshippers  there  on  any  common 
week-day  morning  than  half  of  the  churches  in  New  Eng- 
land collect  on  Sundays.  Let  them  visit  that  magnificent 
temple,  the  Madeleine,  and  see  the  freedom  from  social  dis- 
tinctions which  prevails  there  :  the  soldier,  the  civilian,  the 
rich  and  the  poor,  the  high-bred  lady,  the  servant  in  livery, 
and  the  negress  with  her  bright  yellow  and  red  kerchief 
wound  around  her  head,  are  there  met,  on  an  equality  that 
free  America  knows  not  of. 

The  observance  of  the  Sunday  is  a  sign  of  the  times 
which  ought  not  to  be  overlooked.  Only  a  few  years  ago, 
and  suspension  of  business  on  Sunday  was  so  uncommon 
that  notice  was  given  by  a  sign  to  that  effect  on  the  front  of 
the  few  shops  whose  proprietors  indulged  in  that  strange 
caprice.  The  signs  (like  certain  similar  ones  on  apothecary 
shops  in  Boston,  to  the  effect  that  prescriptions  are  the  only 
business  attended  to  on  the  first  day  of  the  week)  used  to 
seem  to  me  like  a  bait  to  catch  the  custom  of  the  godly. 
But  the  signs  have  passed  away  before  this  movement,  in- 
augurated by  the  Emperor,  who  forbade  labour  on  the  public 


120  AGUECHEEK. 

works  on  Sunday,  and  preached  up  by  the  late  Archbishop 
of  Paris  and  the  parish  clergy.  There  are  few  shops  in 
Paris  that  do  not  close  on  Sunday  now  —  at  least  in  the 
afternoon.  And  this  is  done  by  the  free  will  of  the  trades- 
people :  it  is  not  the  result  of  a  legislative  enactment.  The 
law  here  leaves  all  people  free  in  regard  to  their  religious 
duties.  The  shops  of  the  Jews,  of  course,  ai'e  open  on  Sun- 
day, for  they  are  obliged  to  close  on  Saturday,  and  of  course 
ought  not  to  be  expected  to  observe  two  days.  Of  course, 
too,  the  public  galleries,  and  gardens,  and  places  of  amuse- 
ment are  all  open ;  God  forbid  that  the  hard-faring  children 
of  toil  should  be  cheated  out  of  any  innocent  recreation  on 
the  only  free  day  they  have  by  any  attempts  to  judaize  the 
Christian  Sunday  into  a  sabbath.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to 
suppose  that  people  can  be  made  better  by  diminishing  the 
sources  of  innocent  pleasure.  No ;  if  the  Sunday  be  made 
a  hard,  uninteresting  day,  when  smiling  is  a  grave  impro- 
priety, and  a  hearty  laugh  a  mortal  sin,  children  will  begin 
by  disliking  the  day,  and  end  by  despising  the  religion  that 
made  it  gloomy.  But  provide  the  people  with  music  in 
the  public  parks  on  Sunday  afternoon  and  evening,  —  make 
the  day  a  cheerful,  happy  time  to  those  who  are  ingulfed  in 
the  carking  cares  of  life  all  the  rest  of  the  week,  —  make  it 
a  day  which  children  shall  look  forward  to  with  longing,  and 
you  will  find  that  the  people  are  better,  and  happier,  and 
thriftier  for  the  change.  You  will  find  that  the  mechanic  or 
labourer,  instead  of  lounging  away  his  Sunday  in  a  grog- 
shop, (for  the  business  goes  on  even  though  the  front  door 
may  be  barred  and  the  shutters  closed,)  will  be  ambitious 
to  take  his  wife  and  children  to  hear  the  music,  and  will 
after  a  time  become  as  well  behaved  as  the  common  run  of 
people.  It  is  better  to  use  the  merest  worldly  motives  to 
keep  men  in  the  path  of  decency,  than  to  let  them  slide 
away  to  perdition  because  they  refuse  to  listen  to  the  more 
dignified  teachings  of  religion. 


PARIS.  121 

I  have  been  much  impressed  by  a  visit  to  a  large,  but  un- 
pretentious-looking house  in  the  Rue  du  Bac  —  the  "  mother- 
house"  of  that  admirable  organization,  the  Sisters  of 
Charity.  It  was  not  much  of  a  visit,  to  be  sure  —  for  not 
even  my  gray  hairs  and  respectable  appearance  could  gain 
for  me  an  admission  beyond  the  strangers'  parlour,  the  court- 
yard, and  the  cool,  quiet  chapel.  But  that  was  enough  to 
increase  my  respect  and  admiration  for  those  devoted  women. 
The  community  there  consists  of  six  hundred  Sisters  of 
Charity,  whose  whole  time  is  occupied  in  taking  care  of  the 
sick,  and  needy,  and  neglected  in  the  hospitals  and  asylums, 
and  in  every  quarter  of  the  city.  You  see  them  at  every 
turn,  going  quietly  about  their  work  of  benevolence,  and 
presenting  a  fine  contrast  to  some  of  our  noisy  theorists  at 
home.  I  may  be  in  error,  but  it  strikes  me  that  that  com- 
munity is  doing  more  in  its  present  mode  of  action  to  ad- 
vance the  true  dignity  and  "  rights  "  of  the  sex,  than  if  it 
were  to  resolve  itself  into  a  convention,  after  the  American 
fashion.  I  was  somewhat  anxious  to  inquire  whether  any 
of  the  sisters  of  the  community  had  ever  taken  to  lecturing 
or  preaching  in  public ;  but  the  modest  and  unassuming 
manner  of  all  those  whom  I  saw,  rendered  such  a  question 
unnecessary.  I  fear  that  oratory  is  sadly  neglected  among 
them  ;  with  this  exception,  and  perhaps  the  absence  of  a 
certain  strong-mindedness  in  their  characters,  I  think  that 
they  will  compare  very  favourably  with  any  of  our  distin- 
guished female  philanthropists.  They  wear  the  same  gray 
habit  and  odd-shaped  white  bonnet  that  the  Siisters  of 
Charity  wear  in  Boston.  "While  we  praise  the  self-forgetful 
heroism  of  Florence  Nightingale  as  it  deserves,  let  us  not 
forget  that  France  sent  out  her  Florence  Nightingales  to 
the  Crimea  by  fifties  and  hundreds  —  young  and  delicate 
women,  hiding  their  personality  under  the  common  dress  of 
a  religions  order,  casting  aside  the  names  that  would  recall 
11 


122  AGUECHEEK. 

their  rank  in  the  world,  unencouraged  in  their  beneficence 
by  any  newspaper  paragraphs,  and  unrewarded  save  by  the 
sweet  consciousness  of  duty  done.  The  Emperor  Alexan- 
der, struck  by  the  part  played  in  the  Crimean  campaign  by 
the  Sisters  of  Charity,  has  recently  asked  the  superior  of 
the  order  to  detail  five  hundred  of  the  sisters,  for  duty  in 
the  hospitals  of  Russia.  It  is  understood  that  the  request 
will  be  complied  with  so  far  as  the  number  of  the  com- 
munity will  permit. 

If  I  were  asked  to  sum  up  in  one  sentence  the  practical 
result  of  my  observations  of  men  and  manners  here  on  the 
continent,  I  should  say  that  it  was  this :  We  have  a  great 
deal  to  learn  in  America  concerning  the  philosophy  of  life. 
I  do  not  mean  that  philosophy  which  teaches  us  that  "  it  is 
not  all  of  life  to  live,"  but  the  philosophy  of  making  ninety- 
three  cents  furnish  the  same  amount  of  comfort  in  America 
that  five  francs  do  in  Paris.  The  spirit  of  centralization  is 
stronger  here  than  in  any  American  city :  (it  is  too  true,  as 
Heine  said,  that  to  speak  of  the  departments  of  France 
having  a  political  opinion  as  distinguished  from  Paris,  "  is 
to  talk  of  a  man's  legs  thinking ;")  and  there  is  no  reason 
why  people  of  moderate  means  should  not  be  able  to  live 
as  respectably,  comfortably,  and  economically  in  our  cities 
as  here,  if  they  will  only  use  a  little  common  sense.  The 
model-lodging-house  enterprise  was  a  most  praiseworthy 
one,  but  it  seems  to  have  been  confined  only  to  the  wants 
of  the  most  necessitous  class  in  the  community.  There  is, 
however,  a  large  class  of  salesmen,  and  book-keepers,  and 
mechanics,  on  salaries  of  six  hundred  to  twelve  or  fourteen 
hundred  dollars,  whose  position  is  no  less  deserving  of  com- 
miseration. When  the  prices  of  beefsteak  and  potatoes 
went  up  so  amazingly  a  few  years  ago,  there  were  few 
salaries  that  experienced  a  similar  augmentation.  The 
position  of  the  men  on  small  salaries  therefore  became  pecu- 


FABIS.  123 

liar,  not  to  say  unpleasant,  as  rents  rose  in  the  same  propor- 
tion as  every  thing  else.  Any  person,  familiar  with  the 
rents  of  brick  houses  for  small  families  in  most  of  the 
Atlantic  cities,  will  see  how  diflBcult  it  is  for  such  people  as 
these  to  live  within  their  means.  Now,  the  remedy  for  this 
evil  is  a  simple  one,  but  it  requires  some  public-spirited 
men  to  initiate  it.  Suppose  that  a  few  large,  handsome 
houses,  on  the  European  plan,  (that  is,  having  a  suit  of 
rooms,  comprising  a  parlour,  dining-room,  two  or  three  bed- 
rooms, and  a  kitchen,  on  each  floor,)  were  buUt  in  any  of  our 
great  thoroughfares,  —  the  ground  floors  might  be  used  for 
shops, — for  there  is  no  reason  why  respectable  people 
should  any  more  object  to  living  over  shops  there,  than  on 
the  Boulevards.  Such  houses,  it  is  easy  to  see,  would  be 
good  paying  property  to  their  owners,  as  soon  as  people 
got  into  that  way  of  living;  and  when  salaried  men  saw 
that  they  could  get  the  equivalent,  in  comfort  and  available 
room,  to  an  ordinary  five  hundred  dollar  house  for  half  that 
rent,  in  a  central  situation,  depend  upon  it,  they  would 
not  be  long  in  learning  how  to  Iiv§  in  that  style.  The  ad- 
vantages of  this  plan  of  domestic  life  are  numerous  and 
striking.  Housekeeping  would  be  disarmed  of  half  its  dif- 
ficulties ;  the  little  kitchen  would  furnish  the  coffee  and 
eggs  in  the  biorning  and  the  tea  and  toast  at  night  —  the 
dinner  might  be  ordered  from  a  neighbouring  restaurant  for 
any  hour  —  for  such  establishments  would  increase  with 
the  increase  of  apartments.  The  dangers  of  burglary  would 
be  diminished,  for  the  housekeeper  would  have  only  the 
door  leading  to  the  staircase  to  lock  up  at  night.  The 
washing  would  be  done  out  of  the  house,  and  the  steam  of 
boiling  suds,  and  all  anxiety  about  clothes-lines,  and  sooty 
chimneys,  and  windy  weather  would  thereby  be  avoided. 
Thousands  of  people  would  be  liberated  from  the  caprice 
and  petty  tyranny  of  the  railroad  directors,  whose  action 


124  AOUKCUEEK. 

has  80  often  filled  our  newspapers  with  resolutions  and 
protests,  and,  so  far  as  Boston  is  concerned,  its  peninsula, 
might  be  made  the  home  of  a  population  of  three  hundred 
thousand  instead  of  a  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  |)ersons. 
The  most  rigidly  careless  person  can  hardly  fail  to  become 
a  successful  housekeeper,  when  the  matter  is  made  so  easy 
as  it  is  by  the  European  plan.  The  plan,  too,  not  only 
simplifies  the  mysteries  of  domestic  economy,  but  it  snuggi- 
fies  one's  establishment  wonderfully,  and  gives  it  a  home 
feeling,  such  as  what  are  called  genteel  houses  nowadays 
wot  not  of.  The  change  has  got  to  come  —  and  the  sooner 
it  does,  the  better  it  will  be  for  our  cities,  and  many  of  their 
people,  who  have  been  driven  into  remote  and  unpleasant 
suburbs  by  high  rents,  or  who  are  held  back  from  marriage 
by  the  expenses  of  housekeeping  conducted  on  the  present 
method. 


PARIS. 

It  is  an  inestimable  advantage  to  an  idle  man  to  have 
such  a  place  as  the  Louvre  ever  open  to  him.  The  book- 
stalls and  print-shops  of  the  quays,  those  never-failing 
sources  of  pleasure  and  of  extravagance  in  a  small  way, 
cannot  be  visited  with  any  satisfaction  under  the  meridian 
sun ;  the  shop  windows,  a  perpetual  industrial  exhibition, 
grow  tiresome  at  times ;  the  streets  are  too  crowded,  the 
gardens  too  empty ;  the  reading  rooms  are  close ;  the  news- 
papers are  stupid ;  and  what  remains  ?  Why,  the  Louvre 
opens  its  hospitable  doors,  and,  blessing  the  memory  of 
Francis  L,  the  tired  wanderer  enters,  and  drinks  in  the 
refreshing  coolness  of  those  quiet  and  spacious  halls.  If 
he  is  an  antiquarian,  he  plunges  deep  into  the  arcana  of 
ancient  Egypt,  and  emulates  the  great  Champollion  ;  if  he 
is  a  student  of  history,  he  muses  on  the  sceptre  of  Charle- 
magne, or  the  old  gray  coat  and  poronation  robes  of  the 
first  Napoleon  ;  if  he  is  devoted  to  art,  he  travels  through 
that  wilderness  of  paintings  and  statuary,  and  thinks  and 
talks  about  chiaro  'scuro,  "  breadth  of  colour,"  or  "  bits  of 
foreshortening."  But  if  he  be  a  man  of  simple  tastes,  who 
detests  technicalities,  and  enjoys  all  such  things  in  a  quiet, 
general  sort  of  way,  without  knowing  exactly  what  it  is  that 
pleases  him,  —  he  goes  through  room  after  room,  now  stop- 
ping for  an  instant  before  a  set  of  antique  china,  now  specu- 
lating on  the  figure  he  should  cut  in  one  of  those  old  suits 
of  armour,  and  finally  settling  down  in  a  chair  before  some 
landscape  by  Cuyp  or  Claude,  in  which  the  artist  seems  to 
have  imprisoned  the  sunbeams  and  the  warm,  fragrant 
11*  (125) 


1 20  AGUECHEEK. 

atmosphere  of  early  June  ;  or  else  he  seats  himself  on  that 
comfortable  sofa  before  Murillo's  masterpiece,  and  contem- 
plates the  supernal  beauty  and  holy  exultation  of  the  face 
of  her  whom  Dante  calls  the  "  Virgin  Mother,  daughter  of 
her  Son."  He  is  surrounded  by  artists,  engaged  in  a  work 
that  seems  to  verify  the  old  maxim,  Lahorare  est  orare,  — 
each  one  striving  to  reproduce  on  his  canvas  the  effects  of 
the  angel-guided  pencil  of  Murillo. 

I  find  it  useless  for  me  to  attempt  to  visit  the  Louvre  sys- 
tematically, as  most  people  do.  I  have  frequently  tried  to 
do  it,  but  it  has  ended  by  my  walking  through  one  or  two 
rooms,  and  then  taking  up  my  position  before  Murillo'e  Con- 
ception, and  holding  it  until  the  hour  came  for  closing  the 
gallery.  When  I  was  young,  I  used  to  think  what  a  glo- 
rious thing  it  would  have  been  to  have  felt  the  thrill  of  joy 
that  filled  the  heart  of  the  discoverer  of  America,  or  the 
satisfaction  of  Shakespeare  when  he  had  finished  Hamlet  or 
Macbeth,  or  of  Beethoven  when  he  had  completed  his  sev- 
enth symphony ;  but  all  that  covetousness  of  the  impossible 
is  blotted  out  by  my  envy  of  the  great  Spanish  painter. 
What  must  have  been  the  deep  transport  of  his  heart,  when 
he  gazed  upon  the  heavenly  vision  his  own  genius  had  cre- 
ated !     He  must  have  felt 

" like  some  watcher  of  the  skies, 

When  a  new  planet  sails  into  his  ken, 
Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when,  with  eagle  eyes, 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific. " 

In  spite  of  all  my  natural  New  England  prejudice,  I  can- 
not help  admiring  and  loving  that  old  Catholic  devotion  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin.  Its  humanizing  offects  can  be  seen  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  middle  ages,  and  tho}-  are  felt  amid  all  the  t  ustle 
and  roar  of  this  irreverent  nineteenth  century.  Woman  can- 
not again  be  thought  the  soulless  being  heathen  philosophy 
considered  her ;  she  cannot  again  become  a  slave,  for  she  is 


PARIS.  127 

recognized  as  the  sister  of  her  who  was  chosen  to  make 
reparation  for  the  misdeeds  of  Mother  Eve.  I  am  strongly 
tempted  to  transcribe  here  some  lines  written  in  pencil  on 
the  fly-leaf  of  an  old  catalogue  of  the  museum  of  the  TiOuvre, 
and  found  on  the  sofa  before  Murillo's  picture.  The  writer 
seems  to  have  had  in  mind  the  beautiful  conclusion  of  the 
life  of  Agricola  by  Tacitus,  where  the  great  historian  says 
that  he  would  not  forbid  the  making  of  likenesses  in  marble 
or  bronze,  but  would  only  remind  us  that  such  images,  like 
the  forms  of  their  originals,  are  frail  and  unenduring,  while 
the  beauty  of  the  mind  is  eternal,  and  can  be  perpetuated 
in  the  manners  of  succeeding  generations  better  than  by 
ignoble  materials  and  the  art  of  the  sculptor.  The  lines 
appear  to  be  a  paraphrase  of  this  idea. 

0  blest  Murillo  J  what  a  task  was  thine, 
That  Mother  to  portray  whose  beauty  mild 

Combined  earth's  comeliness  with  grace  divine,  — 
To  whom  our  God  and  Saviour  as  a  child 
Was  subject  —  upon  whom  so  oft  He  smiled! 

Yet  not  less  happy  also  in  my  part, — 
For  I,  though  in  a  world  by  sin  defiled, 

Though  lacking  genius  and  unskilled  in  art, 

May  paint  that  blessed  likeness  in  a  contrite  heart. 

Art  is  the  surest  and  safest  civilizer.  Popular  education 
may  be  so  perverted  as  only  to  minister  to  new  forms  of 
corruption,  but  art  purifies  itself;  it  has  no  Voltaires,  and 
Rousseaus,  and  Eugene  Sues,  —  for  painting  and  sculpture, 
like  poetry,  refuse  to  be  made  the  handmaids  of  vice  or  un- 
belief. Open  your  galleries  of  art  to  the  people,  and  you 
confer  on  them  a  greater  benefit  than  mere  book  education ; 
you  give  them  a  refinement  to  which  they  would  otherwise 
be  strangers.  The  boor,  turned  loose  into  civilized  society, 
soon  catches  something  of  its  tone  of  politeness ;  and  those 
who  are  accustomed  to  the  contemplation  of  forms  of  ideal 


128  AGUECHEEK. 

beauty  will  not  easily  be  won  by  the  grossness  and  deform- 
ity of  vice.  A  fine  picture  daily  looked  at  becomes  by 
degrees  a  part  of  our  own  souls,  and  exerts  an  influence 
over  us  of  which  we  are  little  aware.  Some  English  writer 
—  Hazlitt,  I  think  —  has  said,  that  if  a  man  were  thinking 
of  committing  some  wicked  or  disgraceful  action,  and  were 
to  stop  short  and  look  for  a  moment  at  some  fine  picture 
with  which  he  had  been  familiar,  he  would  inevitably  be 
turned  thereby  from  his  purpose.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
time  is  not  far  distant  when  each  of  our  great  American 
cities  shall  possess  its  gallery  of  art,  which  (on  certain  days 
of  the  week,  at  least)  shall  be  as  free  to  all  well-behaved 
persons  as  the  public  parks  themselves.  We  may  not  boast 
the  artistic  wealth  of  Rome,  Florence,  Paris,  Dresden,  or 
any  of  the  old  capitals  of  Europe ;  but  the  sooner  we  make 
a  beginning,  the  better  it  will  be  for  our  galleries  and  our 
mob.  We  need  some  more  effectual  humanizer  than  our 
educational  system.  Reading,  writing,  and  ciphering  are 
great  things,  but  they  are  powerless  to  overcome  the  rude- 
ness and  irreverence  of  our  people.  Our  populace  seems  to 
lack  entirely  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  or  the  sublime.  As 
Charles  Lamb  said,  "  They  have,  alas !  no  passion  for  an- 
tiquities —  for  the  tomb  of  king  or  prelate,  sage  or  poet.  If 
they  had,  they  would  no  longer  be  the  rabble."  It  is  too 
true  that  the  attempts  which  have  been  made  to  open  pri- 
vate gardens  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  public  have  resulted 
in  the  most  shameful  abuses  of  privilege,  and  that  flowers 
are  stolen  from  the  graves  in  our  cemeteries ;  but  there  is 
no  reason  for  giving  our  people  up  as  past  praying  for,  on 
the  score  of  politeness  and  common  decency.  They  must 
be  educated  up  to  it :  some  abuses  may  occur  at  first,  but  a 
few  salutary  lessons  on  the  necessity  of  submission  to  au- 
thority will  rectify  it  all,  and  our  people  will,  in  the  course 


PARIS.  129 

of  time,  become  as  well-behaved  as  the  people  of  France 
or  Italy. 

I  am  no  antiquarian.     I  do  not  love  the  antique  for  an- 
tiquity's sake.     It  must  appeal  to  me  through  the  medium 
of  history,  or  not  at  all.     Etruscan  relics  have  no  other 
charm  for  me  than   their  beauty  of  form.      I   care   but 
little  for  Egyptian  sarcophagi  or  their  devices  and  hiero- 
glyphics, and  I  would  not  go  half  a  mile  to  see  a  wilderness 
of  mummies.     Whenever  I  feel  a  longing  for  any  thing  in 
the  Egyptian  or  heathen  line,  I  can  resort  to  Mount  Au- 
burn, with  its  gateway  —  and  this  thought  satisfies  me ;  so 
that  I  pass  by  all  such  things  without  feeling  that  I  am  a 
loser.     With  such  feelings,  there  are  many  of  the  halls  of 
the  Ijouvre  which  I  only  walk  through  with  an  admiring 
glance  at  their  elegance  of  arrangement.    A  few  days  since, 
in  wandering  about  there,  I  found  a  room  which  I  had  never 
seen  before,  and  which  touched  me  more  nearly  than  any 
thing  there,  except  the  paintings.     It  has  been  opened  re- 
cently.    I  had  been  looking  through  the  relics  of  royalty 
with  a  considerable  degree  of  pleasure,  —  meditating  on  the 
armour  of  Henry  the  Great,  the  breviary  of  St.  Louis, 
and  the  worn  satin  shoe  which  once  covered  the  little  foot 
of  Marie  Antoinette, — and  was  about  to  leave,  when  I  no- 
ticed that  a  door  was  open  which  in  past  years  I  had  seen 
closed.     I  pushed  in,  and  found  myself  in  a  vast  and  mag- 
nificent apartment,  on  the  gorgeously  frescoed  ceiling  of 
which  was  emblazoned  the  name  —  which  is  a  tower  of 
strength  to  every  Frenchman  —  Napoleon.     Around  the 
room,  in  elegant  glass  cases,  were  disposed  the  relics  of  the 
saint  whom  Mr.  Abbott's  bull  of  canonization  has  placed 
in  red  letters  in  the  calendar  of  Young  America.     Leaving 
aside  all  joking  upon  the  attempts  to  prove  that  much- 
slandered  monarch  a  saint,  there  was  his  history,  written  as 
Sartor  Resartus  would  have  written  it,  in  his  clothes.    There 


loO  AGUECHEEK. 

was  a  crayon  sketch  of  him  at  the  age  of  sixteen ;  there  was 
a  mathematical  book  which  he  had  studied,  the  case  of  math- 
ematical instruments  he  had  used ;  there  was  the  coat  in 
which  he  rode  up  and  down  the  lines  of  Marengo,  inspiring 
every  heart  with  heroism,  and  every  arm  with  vigour ;  the 
sword  and  coat  he  wore  as  First  Consul ;  the  glittering 
robes  which  decked  him  when  he  sat  in  the  chair  of  Clovis 
and  Charlemagne,  the  idol  of  his  nation,  and  the  terror  of 
all  the  world  besides  ;  the  stirrups  in  which  he  stood  at 
Waterloo,  and  saw  his  brave  legions  cut  up  and  dispersed ; 
and,  though  last,  not  least,  there  was  the  old  gray  coat  and 
hat  in  which  he  walked  about  at  St.  Helena,  and  the  very 
handkerchief  which  in  his  dying  hour  wiped  the  chill  dew 
of  eternity  from  his  brow.  There  were  many  things  be- 
sides —  there  v(eTe  his  table  and  chair ;  his  camp  bed  on 
which  he  rested  during  those  long  campaigns ;  his  gloves, 
his  razor  strap,  his  comb,  the  clothes  of  his  little  son,  the 
"  King  of  Rome,"  and  the  bow  he  played  with ;  the  saddles 
and  other  presents  which  he  received  during  his  expedition 
to  the  East,  and  his  various  court  dresses  —  but  the  old 
gray  coat  was  the  most  attractive  of  all.  It  was  a  conso- 
lation to  notice  that  it  had  lost  a  button,  for  it  showed  that 
though  its  wearer  was  an  anointed  emperor,  he  was  not  ex- 
empt from  the  vicissitudes  of  common  humanity.  I  sat 
down  and  observed  the  people  who  visited  the  room,  and  I 
noticed  that  they  all  lingered  around  the  old  coat.  It  made 
no  difference  whether  they  spoke  English,  French,  German, 
or  any  other  tongue ;  there  was  something  which  appealed 
to  them  all ;  there  was  a  common  ground,  where  the  stu- 
dent and  the  enthusiastic  lover  of  high  art  could  join  in 
harmonious  feeling,  even  with  the  practical  man,  who  -would 
not  have  cared  a  three-cent  piece  if  Pi*axiteles  and  Canova 
had  never  sculptured,  or  Raphael  and  Murillo  had  never 
seen  a  brush.    It  required  but  a  slight  effort  to  fill  the  room 


PARIS.  131 

up  of  the  absent  hero,  and  to  "  stuff  out  his  vacant  gar- 
ments with  his  form,"  and  perhaps  this  very  thing  tended  to 
make  the  entire  exhibition  a  sad  one.  It  was  the  most  mel- 
ancholy commentary  on  human  glory  that  can  be  imagined. 
It  ought  to  be  placed  in  the  vestibule  of  a  church,  or  in 
some  more  public  place,  and  it  would  purge  a  community 
of  ambition.  What  a  sermon  might  Lacordaire  preach  on 
the  temporal  and  the  eternal,  with  the  sword  and  the  coro- 
nation robes  of  Napoleon  I.  before  him ! 

The  interest  which  I  have  seen  manifested  by  so  many 
people  in  the  relics  of  Napoleon  I.  has  afforded  me  consid- 
erable amusement.  I  have  lately  seen  so  much  ridicule 
cast  upon  the  relics  of  the  saints  preserved  in  many  of 
the  churches  of  Italy,  by  people  of  the  same  class  as  those 
who  lingered  so  reverentially  before  the  glass  cases  of  the 
Napoleon  room  in  the  Louvre,  that  I  cannot  help  thinking 
how  rare  a  virtue  consistency  is. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  owing  to  some  weakness  in  my  men- 
tal organization,  but  I  cannot  acknowledge  the  propriety  of 
honouring  the  burial-places  of  successful  generals,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  think  the  shrines  of  the  saints  worthy  of 
nothing  but  ridicule  and  desecration.  I  found  myself,  a 
few  years  ago,  looking  with  grave  interest  at  an  old  coat  of 
General  Jackson's,  which  is  preserved  in  the  Patent  OfBce 
at  Washington ;  and  I  cannot  wonder  at  the  reverence  which 
some  people  pay  to  the  garinents  of  a  martyr  in  the  cause 
of  religion.  I  cannot  understand  how  it  may  be  right  and 
proper  to  celebrate  the  birthdays  of  worldly  heroes,  and 
"rank  idolatry"  to  commemorate  the  self-denying  heroes 
of  Christianity.  I  cannot  join  in  the  setting-up  of  statues  of 
generals  and  statesmen,  and  condemn  a  similar  homage  to 
the  saints  by  any  allusions  to  the  enormity  of  making  a 
**  graven  image."  In  fine^  if  it  is  right  to  adorn  and  rever- 
ence the  tomb  of  the  Father  of  his  Country,  (and  what 


132  AGUECHEEK. 

American  heart  does  not  acknowledge  its  propriety?)  it 
certainly  cannot  be  wrong  to  beautify  and  venerate  the 
tomb  of  the  chief  apostle,  and  the  shrines  of  saints  and 
martyrs  who  achieved  for  themselves  and  their  fellow-men 
an  independence  from  a  tyranny  infinitely  worse  than  thai 
from  which  Washington  liberated  America. 

I  have  recently  been  visiting  the  three  great  monuments 
of  the  reign  of  Napoleon  III.  —  the  completed  Louvre, 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  the  Halles  Centrales.  As  to 
the  first,  those  who  remember  those  narrow,  nasty  streets, 
which  within  six  years  were  the  approaches  to  the  Louvre 
and  the  Palace  Royal,  and  those  rickety  old  buildings  re- 
minding one  too  strongly  of  cheese  in  an  advanced  stage  of 
mouldiness,  that  used  to  intrude  their  unsightly  forms  into 
the  very  middle  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  —  those  who 
recollect  the  junk  shops  that  seemed  more  fitting  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  docks  than  to  the  entrance  to  a  palace 
and  a  gallery  of  art,  —  feel  in  a  manner  lost,  when  they 
walk  about  the  courtyards  of  the  noble  edifice  which  has 
taken  the  place  of  so  much  deformity.  If  the  new  wings 
of  the  Louvre  had  been  built  in  one  range  instead  of  quad- 
rangles, they  would  extend  more  than  half  a  mile  !  Half  a 
mile  of  palace,  and  a  palace,  too,  which  in  building  has  oc- 
cupied one  hundred  and  fifty  sculptors  for  the  past  five 
years  !  Those  who  have  not  visited  Paris  within  five  years 
will  recollect  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  only  as  a  vast  neglected 
tract  of  woodland,  which  seemed  a  great  waste  of  the  raw 
material  in  a  place  where  firewood  is  so  expensive  as  it  is 
here.  It  is  now  laid  out  in  beautiful  avenues  and  walks, 
the  extent  of  which  is  said  to  be  nearly  two  hundred  miles. 
You  are  refreshed  by  the  sound  of  waterfalls  and  the  cool- 
ness of  grottos,  the  rocks  for  the  formation  of  which  were 
brought  from  Fontainebleau,  more  than  forty  miles  distant 
from  Paris.     You  walk  on,  and  find  yourself  on  the  shoret: 


PABIS.  133 

of  a  lake,  a  mile  or  two  in  length,  with  two  or  three  lovely 
islands  in  it,  and  in  whose  bright  blue  waters  thousands  of 
trout  are  sporting.  That  wild  waste,  the  old  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne, which  few  persons  but  duellists  ever  visited,  has 
passed  away,  and  in  its  place  you  find  the  most  magnificent 
park  in  the  world.  It  is  indeed  a  perfect  triumph  of  land- 
scape gardening.  It  is  nature  itself,  not  in  miniature,  but 
on  such  a  scale  as  to  deceive  you  entirely,  and  fill  you 
with  the  same  feeling  of  admiration  that  is  awakened  by 
any  striking  natural  beauty.  The  old  French  notions  of 
landscape  gardening  seem  to  have  been  entirely  cast  aside. 
The  carriage  roads  and  paths  go  winding  about  so  that  tlie 
view  is  constantly  changing,  and  the  trees  are  allowed  to 
grow  as  they  please,  without  being  tortured  into  fantastic 
shapes  by  the  pruning  knife.  The  banks  of  the  lake  have 
been  made  irregular,  now  steep,  now  sloping  gently  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  in  some  places  huge  jagged  rocks  have 
been  most  naturally  worked  in,  while  ivy  has  been  planted 
around  them,  and  in  their  crevices  those  weeds  and  shrubs 
which  commonly  grow  in  such  places.  You  would  about  as 
readily  take  Jamaica  Pond  to  be  artificial  as  this  lovely 
sheet  of  water  and  its  surroundings.  The  Avenue  de  I'lm- 
p^ratrice  is  the  road  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  to  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne.  It  is  half  or  three  quarters  of  a  mile  in 
length,  and  is  destined  to  be  one  of  the  most  striking  fea- 
tures of  Paris.  It  is  laid  out  with  spacious  grass  plots,  with 
carriage  ways  and  ways  for  equestrians  and  foot  passengers, 
■with  regular  double  rows  of  trees  on  either  side.  Many 
elegant  chateau-like  private  residences  already  adorn  it,  and 
others  are  rapidly  rising.  An  idea  of  its  majestic  appear- 
ance may  be  had  from  the  fact  that  its  entire  width  from 
house  to  house  is  about  four  hundred  feet  The  large  space 
around  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  is  already  laid  out  in  a  square, 
to  be  called  the  Place  de  I'Europe,  and  the  work  has  already 
18 


134  AGUECHEEK. 

been  commenced  of  reducing  the  buildings  around  it  to 
symmetry.  The  Halles  Centrales,  the  great  central  market- 
house  of  Paris,  has  just  been  opened  to  the  public.  It  is 
built  mainly  of  iron  and  glass.  As  nearly  as  I  could  judge 
of  its  size>  I  should  think  it  would  leave  but  little  spare 
room  if  it  were  placed  in  Union  Park,  New  York.  It  is 
about  a  hundred  feet  in  height,  and  so  well  ventilated  that 
it  is  hard  to  realize  when  there  that  one  is  under  cover.  A 
wide  street  for  vehicles  runs  through  its  whole  length, 
crossed  by  others  at  equal  intervals.  I  have  called  these 
three  public  improvements  the  great  monuments  of  the 
reign  of  Napoleon  III. ;  not  that  I  would  limit  his  good 
works  to  these,  but  because  these  may  be  taken  as  conspic- 
uous illustrations  of  his  care,  no  less  for  the  amusements 
than  for  the  bodily  wants  of  his  people,  and  of  his  zeal  for  the 
promotion  of  art  and  the  adornment  of  his  capital.  But 
these  noble  characteristics  of  the  Emperor  deserve  some- 
thing more  than  a  mere  passing  notice,  and  may  well  form 
the  subject  of  my  next  letter. 


NAPOLEON   THE    THIRD* 

There  is  a  period  in  the  life  of  almost  every  man  which 
nay  justly  be  termed  the  romantic  period.  I  do  not  mean 
he  time  when  a  youth,  whose  heart  is  as  yet  unwarped  by 
he  selfishness  of  the  world,  and  his  brow  unclouded  by  its 
trials  and  its  sorrows,  thinks  that  the  performance  of  his 
life  will  fully  come  up  to  the  glowing  programme  he  then 
composes  for  it ;  neither  do  I  refer  to  the  period  when,  in 
hungry  expectation,  we  clutched  eagerly  at  the  booksellers' 
announcements  of  the  last  productions  of  the  eloquent  Bul- 
wer,  or  of  the  inexhaustible  James.  But  I  refer  to  the' 
time  when  childhood  forgets  its  new  buttons  in  reading  how 
poor  Ali  Baba  relieved  his  wants  at  the  expense  of  the 
wicked  thieves ;  how  Whittington  heard  Bow  bells  ring  out 
the  prophecy  of  his  greatness ;  how  fierce  Blue  Beard  pun- 
ished" his  wife's  curiosity ;  and  how  good  King  Alfred  mer- 
ited reproof  by  his  forgetfulness  of  the  herdsman's  supper. 
This  is  the  true  period  of  romance  in  the  lives  of  all  of  us ; 
for  then  all  the  romance  that  we  read  is  clothed  with  the 
dignity  of  history,  and  all  our  history  is  invested  with  the 

•  The  author  must  plead  oTiilty  to  a  little  hesitation  (indi^ced  by  the 
present  aspect  of  European  affairs)  about  incorporating  this  paper  on 
the  French  Emperor,  written  some  three  years  since,  in  his  work.  He 
feels,  however,  that,  whatever  may  be  the  issue  of  the  present  contest  in 
Europe,  the  services  of  Napoleon  III.  to  France  and  to  civilization  are 
a  part  of  history  ;  and  he  has  no  wish  to  disguise  his  satisfaction  at  hav- 
ing been  one  of  the  first  Americans  who  confronted  the  vulgar  prejudices 
of  his  countrymen  against  that  remarkable  man,  and  publicly  recognized 
the  wonderful  talents  which  have  placed  France  at  the  head  of  all  civil- 
ized natioiu. 

(135) 


186  AOUECUEEK. 

charm  of  romance.  This  happy  period  does  not  lose  its 
attractions,  even  when  we  outgrow  the  credulity  of  child- 
hood ;  for  the  romance  of  history  captivates  us  when  we  no 
longer  are  subject  to  the  sway  of  the  novelist ;  and  we 
leave  Mr.  Thackeray's  last  uncut,  until  we  can  finish  a 
newspaper  chapter  in  the  history  of  these  momentous 
times. 

We  know  how  eagerly  we  pursue  the  vicissitudes  of  for- 
tune which  have  marked  the  career  of  so  many  of  the 
world's  heroes  ;  and  this  will  teach  us  how  future  genera- 
tions will  read  the  history  of  the  present  century.  Surely 
the  whole  range  of  romance  presents  no  parallel  to  the 
simple  history  of  the  wonderful  man  who  now  governs 
France.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  his  varied  fortunes  will  one 
day  perform  a  conspicuous  part  in  that  juvenile  classical 
literature  of  which  I  have  spoken  ;  and  perhaps  it  may  not 
be  unprofitable,  dear  reader,  for  us  to  endeavour  to  raise 
ourselves  above  the  excitement  of  partisanship  and  the  in- 
fluences of  old  prejudices,  and  look  upon  his  career  as  may 
the  writers  of  the  twenty-fifth  century. 

It  is  a  popular  error  in  America  to  regard  Louis  Napo- 
leon as  a  singular  combination  of  knavery  and  half-witted- 
ness.  Even  Mr.  Emerson,  in  his  English  Traits,  so  far 
forgets  the  kindliness  of  his  nature  as  to  call  him  a  "  suc- 
cessful thief."  The  English  journalists  once  delighted  to  rid- 
icule him  as  the  "  nephew  of  his  uncle,"  and  the  shadow  of 
a  great  i\ame,  and  Punch  used  to  represent  him  as  a  pygmy 
standing  upon  the  brim  of  his  uncle's  hat,  and  wondering 
how  he  could  ever  fill  it ;  but  he  has  lived  down  ridicule, 
and  they  have  long  since  learned  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  the  possibility  of  a  mistake  in  judgment,  even  among 
journalists  and  politicians.  It  is  time  that  we  Americans 
got  over  a  notion  which  has  long  since  been  exploded  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic.     I  know  that  I  am  flying  in  the 


it!4C: 


NAPOLEON  THE  THIRD.  137 

face  of  those  who  believe  in  the  plenary  inspiration  of  the 
New  York  Tribune,  when  I  claim  for  the  Emperor  any 
thing  like  patriotism  or  capacity  as  a  statesman.  I  know 
that  the  Greeleian,  "philanthropic"  code  exacts  that  we 
should  not  "  give  the  prisoner  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,"  and 
that  when  any  one  whom  we  dislike  does  any  good,  we 
should  attribute  it  to  nothing  but  a  selfish  or  ambitious  mo- 
tive. I  know  that  this  new-fangled  love  of  all  mankind 
requires  us  to  hate  those  who  differ  from  us  politically,  and 
never  to  lose  an  opportunity  to  blacken  their  characters  and 
diminish  their  reputation ;  and  therefore  I  make  all  due 
allowances  for  the  refusal  of  the  Tribune,  and  journals  of 
the  same  amiable  family,  to  see  the  truth.  In  April,  1856, 
I  was  waiting  for  a  train  in  a  way  station  on  the  Worcester 
Railroad.  A  sun-burned,  hard-working  man  was  reading 
the  news  of  the  proclamation  of  peace  at  Paris  from  a 
penny  paper,  and  he  commented  upon  it  to  two  or  three 
others  who  were  present,  as  follows  :  "  Well,  I  don't  know 
how  'tis,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  we've  been  most  almightily 
mistaken  about  this  'ere  Lewis  Napoleon.  We  used  to 
think  he  was  a  shaller  kind  o'  feller  any  how,  but  it  really 
looks  now,  judging  from  the  position  of  France  in  European 
affairs,  as  if  he  was  turning  out  to  be  altogether  the  biggest 
dog  in  thai,  tanyard !  "  The  old  fellow's  conclusion  was  a 
true  one,  though  his  rhetoric  would  not  have  been  com- 
mended at  Cambridge ;  and  it  is  to  prevent  this  conclusion 
forcing  itself  upon  the  public  sense,  that  the  sympathizers 
with  socialism  have  been  labouring  ever  since.  We  are 
told  that  it  is  our  duty  as  Americans  and  republicans  to 
wish  for  the  overthrow  of  Napoleon  and  his  empire,  and 
the  establishment  of  the  republiqiie  democratique  et  sociale. 
Now,  having  received  my  political  principles  from  another 
source  than  the  Tribune,  I  may  be  pardoned  for  having  a 
prejudice  in  favour  of  allowing  the  people  of  France  to  govern 
12  • 


138  .agueciiki:k. 

France ;  and,  as  they  elected  Louis  Napoleon  President  in 
1848  by  more  than  five  millions  of  votes,  and  in  1851 
chose  him  dictator  (in  their  fear  of  the  very  party  which 
the  Tribune  wishes  to  see  in  power)  by  more  than  seven 
millions  of  votes,  and  finally,  in  1852,  made  him  their 
Emperor  by  a  vote  of  more  than  seven  millions  against  a 
little  more  than  three  hundred  thousand,  we  may  suppose 
France  to  have  expressed  a  pretty  decided  opinion  on  this 
matter.  The  French  empire  rests  upon  the  very  principle 
that  forms  the  basis  of  true  republicanism  —  universal  suf- 
frage. Louis  Napoleon  restored  that  principle  after  it  had 
been  suppressed  or  restricted,  and  proved  himself  a  truer 
republican  than  his  opponents.  For  nine  years,  Napoleon 
has  been  sustained  by  the  people  of  France  with  a  unanim- 
ity such  as  the  United  States  never  knew,  except  in  the 
election  of  Washington  as  first  President,  and  his  majority 
has  increased  every  time  that  he  has  appealed  to  the  people. 
It  is  Idle  to  say  that  there  are  parties  here  that  are  opposed 
to  him  ;  it  would  be  a  remarkable  phenomenon  if  there 
were  not.  But  there  is  a  more  united  support  here  for  the 
Emperor  than  there  is  in  our  own  country  for  the  consti- 
tution of  the  United  States,  and  any  right-minded  man 
would  regret  a  revolutionary  movement  in  one  country  an 
much  as  in  the  other. 

K  there  was  ever  a  position  calculated  to  test  the  capa- 
bilities of  its  occupant,  it  was  that  in  which  Louis  Napoleon 
found  himself  when  he  obeyed  the  voice  of  the  French 
people,  and  accepted  the  presidency  of  the  French  repub- 
lic. Surrounded  by  men  holding  all  kinds  of  political  opin- 
ions, from  the  agrarian  Proudhon  to  the  impracticable  Louis 
Blanc,  and  men  of  no  political  opinions  whatever,  —  he 
found  himself  obliged  to  use  all  the  power  reposed  in  him 
by  the  constitution,  to  keep  the  government  from  falling 
asunder.     History  bears  witness  to  the  fact  that  republi- 


NAPOLEON   THE  THIBD.  139 

can  governments  deteriorate  more  rapidly  than  those  which 
are  based  upon  a  less  changeable  foundation  than  the  pop- 
ular will.  But  there  was  little  danger  of  the  French  re- 
public deteriorating,  for  it  was  about  as  weak  and  unprinci- 
pled as  it  could  be  in  its  very  inception.  There  were  a  few 
men  of  high  and  patriotic  character  in  the  Assembly,  but 
(as  is  generally  the  case)  their  voices  were  drowned  amid 
the  clamourings  of  a  crowd  of  radical  journalists  and  am- 
bitious litterateurs,  whose  only  bond  of  union  was  a  fierce 
hatred  of  law  and  religion,  and  a  desire  for  the  spoils  of 
office.  These  were  the  men  with  whom  Napoleon  had  to 
deal  They  had  favoured  his  election  to  the  presidency, 
for,  in  their  misapprehension  of  his  character,  they  thought 
him  the  mere  shadow  of  a  name,  and  expected  under  his 
government  to  have  all  things  their  own  way.  But  they 
were  not  long  in  discovering  their  mistake. 

His  conduct  soon  showed  that  he  was  the  proper  man  for 
the  crisis.  That  unflinching  republican,  General  Cavai- 
gnac,  had  before  pointed  out  the  dangers  to  all  European 
governments,  and  to  civilization  itself,  that  would  spring 
from  the  continuance  of  the  sanguinary  and  sacrilegious  Ro- 
man republic;  and  Napoleon,  accepting  his  suggestions, 
took  immediate  measures  to  put  an  end  to  the  atrocities 
which  marked  the  sway  of  Mazzini  and  his  assassins  in  the 
Roman  States.*     The  success  which  attended  these  meas- 

*  Lest  I  should  be  thought  guilty  of  speaking  rashly  with  regard  to  the 
anarchy  which  Napoleon  destroyed  in  1849  at  Rome,  I  take  the  liberty  to 
transcribe  a  few  extracts  from  the  constitution  of  the  Society  of  "  Young 
Italy,"  which  will  give  some  idea  of  the  principles  upon  which  the  Roman 
Republic  rested.  I  translate  from  the  edition  published  at  Naples,  by 
Benedetto  Cantalupo. 

"  Article  I.  The  Society  is  established  for  the  entire  destruction  of 
all  the  governments  of  the  peninsula,  and  for  the  forming  of  Italy  into  a 
■ingle  state,  under  a  republican  government. 

"  Akt.  II.    In  consequence  of  the  evils  attendant  upon  absolute  gOT< 


140  AGUECHEEK. 

ures  is  now  a  part  of  history.  There  is  a  kind  of  historical 
justice  in  this  part  of  Napoleon's  career  which  must  force 
itself  upon  every  reflecting  mind.  From  the  day  when  St. 
Remy  told  his  royal  convert,  Clovis,  to  "  burn  what  he  had 
adored,-  and  adore  what  he  had  burned,"  the  monarch  of 
France  had  always  been  considered  the  "  eldest  son  of  the 
Church."  The  Roman  Pontiff  was  indebted  to  Pepin  and 
Charlemagne  for  those  possessions  which  rendered  him  in- 
dependent of  the  secular  power.  In  the  hour  of  need  it 
was  always  to  the  Kings  of  France  that  he  looked  for  aid  ; 
and  whether  he  sought  aid  against  the  oppressors  of  the 
Holy  See  or  the  infidel  possessors  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
he  seldom  appealed  to  them  in  vain.  It  was  meet,  there- 
fore, that  Napoleon  should  inaugurate  his  power  by  thus 
reviving  the  ancient  traditionary  spirit  of  the  French  mon- 
archy;  for  he  could  not  better  prove  his  worthiness  to  sit 
on  the  throne  which  had  been  occupied  by  so  many  gener- 
ous and  heroic  spirits,  than  by  fighting  the  battles  of  the 
Church  they  loved  so  well. 

eminent,  and  the  still  greater  evils  of  constitutional  monarchy,  we  ought 
to  join  all  our  efforts  to  establish  a  single  and  indivisible  republic. 

"  Abt.  XXX.  Those  members  who  shall  disobey  the  commands  of 
the  Society,  or  who  shall  reveal  its  mysteries,  shall  be  poniarded  without 
remission. 

"  Art.  XXXI.  The  secret  tribunal  shall  pronounce  sentence  in  such 
cases  as  the  preceding,  and  shall  designate  one  or  more  of  the  brethren 
to  carry  it  into  instant  execution. 

"  Art.  XXXII.  The  brother  who  shall  refuse  to  execute  a  sentence 
thus  pronounced  shall  be  considered  as  a  perjurer,  and  as  such  shall  be 
immediately  put  to  death. 

"  Akt.  XXXIII.  If  the  victim  condemned  to  punishment  should  suc- 
ceed in  escaping,  he  shall  be  pursued  unremittingly  into  any  place  what- 
ever, and  shall  be  struck  as  by  an  invisible  hand,  even  if  he  shall  have 
taken  refuge  on  the  bosom  of  his  mother,  or  in  the  tabernacle  of  Christ. 

"  Art.  XXXIV.  Each  secret  tribunal  shall  be  competent  not  only  to 
condemii  the  guilty  to  death,  but  also  to  put  to  death  all  persons  so  sen- 
tenced." 


NAPOLEON    THE    THIRD.  141 

The  foreign  and  domestic  policy  which  the  Prince-Presi- 
dent pursued  excited  at  the  same  time  the  anger  of  the 
ultra  republican  faction,  and  the  hopes  of  the  religious  and 
conservative  portion  of  society.  Order  was  restored,  and 
an  impetus  was  given  to  commercial  enterprise  and  to  the 
arts  of  peace  such  as  France  had  not  known  since  the  out- 
break of  1848.  Still  the  discordant  elements  of  which  the 
Assembly  was  composed,  were  a  just  cause  of  alarm  to  all 
friends  of  good  order,  and  all  parties,  conservative  and  radi- 
cal, regarded  the  existing  state  of  affairs  as  a  temporary 
one.  Napoleon  saw  that  the  only  obstacle  in  the  path  of 
the  nation  to  peace  and  prosperity  was  the  Assembly  —  the 
radicals  of  the  Assembly  that  the  Prince-President  was  the 
only  obstacle  to  their  plans  of  disorganization  and  anarchy ; 
and  they  also  saw  that,  if  the  question  were  allowed  to  go 
to  the  people  at  the  expiration  of  Napoleon's  term  of  office, 
he  would  surely  be  reelected,  and  that  his  policy  would 
be  triumphantly  confirmed.  So,  as  the  time  drew  near  for 
the  new  election,  the  struggle  between  the  President  and  the 
Assembly  —  between  order  and  anarchy  —  grew  more  and 
more  severe.  Plots  were  formed  against  Napoleon,  and  were 
just  ripening  for  execution,  when,  on  the  second  of  Decem- 
ber, 1851,  he  terminated  the  suspense  of  the  nation  by  seiz- 
ing and  throwing  into  prison  all  the  chief  conspirators 
against  the  public  peace,  and  then  appealed  to  the  people  to 
sustain  him  in  his  efforts  to  preserve  his  country  from  the 
state  of  anarchy  towards  which  it  seemed  to  be  hastening. 
The  people  answered  promptly  and  with  good  will  to  the 
call,  and  Napoleon  gained  an  almost  bloodless  victory. 

But  we  are  told  that  by  the  coup  d'etat,  "  Napoleon  vio- 
lated his  oath  to  sustain  the  constitution  of  the  republic  — 
that  he  is  a  perjurer,  and  all  his  success  cannot  diminish  his 
crime."  So  might  one  of  the  old  loyalists  have  said  about 
our  own  Washington.    "  He  was  a  British  subject  —  by  ao 


142  AGUECHEEK.  ^^ 

cepting  a  commission  under  Braddock,  he  formally  acknowl- 
edged his  allegiance  to  the  crown  —  by  drawing  his  sword 
in  the  revolution,  he  violated  not  only  his  fidelity  as  a  sub- 
ject, but  his  honour  as  a  soldier."  And  what  would  any 
American  reply  to  this  ?  He  would  say  that  Washington 
never  bound  himself  to  violate  his  conscience,  and  that  con- 
scientiously he  felt  bound  to  defend  the  old  English  prin- 
ciples of  free  government  even  against  the  encroachments 
of  his  own  rightful  sovereign.  And  so,  with  equal  reason, 
it  may  be  said  of  Louis  Napoleon,  when  the  term  of  his 
presidency  was  approaching,  and  the  radical  members  of 
the  Assembly  were  forming  conspiracies  to  dispose  of  him 
so  as  to  prevent  his  reelection,  he  was  bound  in  conscience, 
as  the  chief  ruler  of  his  country,  to  prevent  the  anarchy 
that  must  result  from  such  a  movement.  And  how  could 
he  do  this  save  by  dissolving  the  Assembly  and  appealing  to 
the  people  as  he  did  ?  The  constitution  was  nullified  by  the 
plots  of  the  Assembly,  and  France  in  1851  was  really  with- 
out a  government,  until  the  coup  d'etat  inaugurated  the  pres- 
ent reign  of  public  prosperity  and  peace.  The  coup  d'etat 
was  not  only  justifiable  —  it  was  praiseworthy.  When  the 
prejudices  and  party  spirit  of  the  present  time  shall  have 
passed  away,  the  historian  will  grow  eloquent  in  speaking 
of  that  fearless  and  far-sighted  statesman,  who,  when  his 
country  was  threatened  with  a  repetition  of  the  civil  strife 
which  had  too  often  shaken  her  to  her  centre,  threw  himself 
boldly  upon  the  patriotism  of  the  people  with  whose  noble 
words,  "  The  Assembly,  instead  of  being  what  it  ought  to  be, 
the  support  of  public  order,  has  become  a  nest  of  conspira- 
cies. It  compromises  the  peace  of  France.  I  have  dis- 
solved it ;  and  I  call  upon  the  whole  people  to  judge  between 
it  and  myself."  —  The  coup  detat  excited  the  anger  only  of 
the  socialists  and  of  those  partisans  of  the  houses  of  Bour- 
bon and  Orleans  -^ho  loved  those  families  more  than  they 


NAPOLEON  THE    THIRD.  143 

loved  their  country's  welfare ;  for  they  saw,  by  the  revival 
of  business,  that  confidence  in  the  stability  of  the  govern- 
ment was  established,  and  that  Napoleon  had  obtained  a 
place  in  the  affections  of  the  French  people  from  which  he 
could  not  easily  be  dislodged. 

From  this  dictatorship,  which  the  dangers  of  the  time  had 
rendered  necessary,  it  was  an  easy  transition  to  the  empire, 
and  Louis  Napoleon  found  his  succession  to  the  throne  of 
his  uncle  confirmed  by  almost  the  unanimous  vote  of  the 
French  people.  It  was  a  tribute  to  the  man,  and  to  his 
public  policy,  such  as  no  ruler  in  modern  times  has  ever 
received,  and  for  unanimity  is  unparalleled  in  the  history  of 
popular  elections.  His  marriage  followed  quickly  upon  the 
proclamation  of  the  empire ;  and  in  this,  as  in  all  his  acts, 
we  can  discern  his  manly  and  independent  spirit.  He 
sought  not  to  ally  himself  with  any  of  the  royal  families  of 
Europe,  for  he  felt  himself  to  be  so  sure  of  his  position,  that 
he  could  without  risk  consult  his  affections  rather  than  policy 
or  ambition. 

The  skilful  diplomacy  which  led  to  the  alliance  with 
England,  the  campaign  in  the  Crimea,  and  the  repulse  of 
Russia,  are  too  fresh  in  every  body's  recollection  to  bear 
any  repetition.  So  far  as  they  concern  Napoleon  HI., 
the  world  is  a  witness  to  his  matchless  coolness  and  determi- 
nation. What  could  be  grander  than  the  heroic  inflexibility 
he  displayed  in  the  face  of  the  accumulated  disasters  of  that 
campaign,  and  the  murmurs  of  his  allies  !  Misfortune  only 
seemed  to  nerve  him  to  more  vigorous  effort.  During  that 
terrible  wmter  of  1854-5,  he  appeared  more  like  a  fixed, 
unvarying  law  of  nature  than  a  man,  —  so  immovable  was 
he  in  his  opposition  to  those  who,  pressed  by  the  unlooked- 
for  difficulties  of  the  time,  counselled  a  change  of  policy. 
The  successful  termination  of  the  siege  of  Sebastopol,  how- 
ever, proved  the  justice  of  his  calculations,  and,  while  con- 


144  AGUECHEEK. 

quering  monarchs  in  other  times  have  been  content  to  see 
the  negotiations  for  peace  made  in  some  provincial  town, 
or  in  a  city  of  some  neutral  state,  the  proud  satisfaction 
was  conceded  to  him  by  Russia  of  having  the  peace  confer- 
ences held  in  his  own  capital. 

But  while  commemorating  the  success  of  his "  efforts  to 
raise  his  country  to  a  commanding  position  among  the  na- 
tions, we  must  not  forget  the  great  enterprises  of  internal 
improvement  which  he  has  set  on  foot  within  his  empire. 
Who  can  recall  what  Paris  was  under  Louis  Philippe,  or 
the  time  of  the  republic,  and  compare  it  with  the  Paris  of 
to-day,  without  admiring  the  genius  of  Napoleon  III.  ?  Who 
does  not  recognize  a  wonderful  capacity  for  the  administra- 
tion of  government  in  the  Emperor,  when  he  sees  that  nearly 
all  of  these  great  improvements  (unlike  those  of  Louis 
XIV.,  which  impoverished  the  nation)  will  gradually  but 
surely  pay  for  themselves  by  increasing  the  amount  of  tax- 
able property.  Lideed,  the  improvements  in  the  city  of 
Paris  alone  are  on  so  vast  a  scale  as  to  be  incomprehensi- 
ble to  any  one  unacquainted  with  that  capital.  If  Napoleon 
were  to-day  to  fall  a  victim  to  that  organization  of  republi- 
can assassins  which  is  known  to  exist  in  France,  as  well  as 
in  the  other  states  of  Europe,  he  would  leave,  in  the 
Louvre,  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  in  the  new  Boulevards, 
and  the  extension  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  together  with  the 
countless  other  public  works  which  now  adorn  Paris, 
testimonials  to  the  splendour  of  his  brief  reign,  such  as  no 
monarch  ever  left  before :  of  him,  as  of  Sir  Christopher 
Wren,  it  might  be  truly  said, "  Si  qtieeris  monumentum,  cir- 
cumspice." 

But  we  must  not  think  that  Napoleon  has  confined  his 
exertions  to  the  improvement  of  Paris  alone.  Not  a  single 
province  of  his  empire  has  been  neglected  by  him,  and  there 
is  sc£u*cel7  a  town  that  has  not  felt  the  influence  of  his 


NAPOLEON  THE  THIRD.  145 

policy.  The  foreign  commerce  of  France  has  been  wonder- 
fully increased  by  him,  and  his  favourite  project  for  a  ship 
canal  through  the  Isthmus  of  Suez  is  now  numbered  among 
the  probabilities  of  the  age.  When  it  is  considered  what  a 
narrow  strip  of  land  separates  the  Red  Sea  from  the  Medi- 
terranean, and  what  an  immense  advantage  such  a  canal 
would  be  to  all  the  countries  bordering  on  the  latter,  it  is 
not  wonderful  that  Napoleon  should  find  so  many  friends 
among  the  sovereigns  of  Europe.  He  has  not  built  the 
magnificent  new  port  of  Marseilles  merely  for  the  accom- 
modation of  the  Mediterranean  coasting  trade  of  his  empire. 
His  far-seeing  eye  looks  upon  those  massive  quays  covered 
with  merchandise  from  every  quarter  of  the  Orient,  brought, 
not  around  the  stormy  Cape,  nor  by  the  toilsome  caravan 
over  the  parching  desert,  but  by  the  swift  steamers  of 
the  Messageries  Imperiales  from  every  port  of  India, 
through  the  waters  which,  centuries  ago,  rolled  back  and 
opened  a  path  of  safety  to  the  chosen  people  of  God. 

If  the  old  proverb  be  true,  that  a  man  is  known  by  the 
company  he  keeps,  it  is  equally  true,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  a  statesman  may  be  rightly  known  by  examining  the 
character  of  his  opponents.  And  who  are  the  opponents  of 
Napoleon  III.  ?  With  the  exception  of  a  few  partisans  of 
the  Bourbons,  (whose  opposition  to  the  Napoleon  dynasty 
is  an  hereditary  complaint,)  they  are  radical  demagogues, 
who  delight  to  mislead  the  fickle  multitude  with  the  words, 
"  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Fraternity,"  on  their  lips,  but  the 
designs  of  anarchy  and  bloodshed  in  their  hearts.  Their 
ranks  are  swelled  by  a  number  of  visionary  "  philanthro- 
pists," and  a  large  number  of  newspaper  scribblers  deprived 
of  their  occupation  by  Napoleon's  salutary  laws  against 
abuse  of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  and  lacking  ambition  to 
earn  an  honest  livelihood.  Among  them  may  be  found  a 
few  literary  men  of  high  reputation,  who  have  espoused 
18 


146  AGUECHEEK. 

some  impracticable  theory  of  government,  and  would  blindly 
throw  away  their  well-earned  fame,  and  shed  the  last  drop 
of  their  ink  in  forcing  it  upon  an  unwilling  nation. 

Slander,  like  Death,  loves  a  shining  mark.  The  fact 
cannot  be  doubted,  if  we  look  at  the  lives  of  the  greatest 
and  best  men  the  world  has  ever  seen.  In  truth,  a  large 
part  of  the  heroism  of  the  noblest  patriots,  and  the  purest 
philanthropists,  has  been  created  by  the  necessity  they  have 
been  under  to  bear  up  against  the  obloquy  with  which 
enmity  or  envy  has  assailed  them.  The  Emperor  Napo- 
leon is,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  best  abused  man  in  Christen- 
dom. There  probably  never  existed  a  man  whose  every 
act  and  every  motive  have  been  more  studiously  misrepre- 
sented and  systematically  lied  about  than  his.  It  cannot  be 
wondered  at,  either ;  for  he  exercises  too  much  power  in 
the  state  councils  of  Europe,  and  fills  too  large  a  space  in 
the  public  eye,  not  to  be  assailed  by  those  whose  evil  proph- 
ecies have  been  falsified  by  his  brilliant  reign,  and  whose 
lawless  schemes  have  been  frustrated  by  his  unexampled 
prudence  and  firmness. 

And  what  right  has  he  to  complain  ?  If  St.  Gregory 
VII.  were  obliged  to  submit  for  centuries  to  being  repre- 
sented as  an  ambitious  self-seeker  and  unscrupulous  poli- 
tician, instead  of  a  wise  and  far-seeing  pontiff,  a  vanquisher 
of  tyrants,  and  a  self-denying  saint ;  if  St.  Thomas  of 
Canterbury  be  held  up,  in  hundreds  of  volumes,  as  a  mon- 
ster of  ingratitude  towards  a  beneficent  sovereign,  and  a 
haughty  and  overbearing  supporter  of  prelatical  tyranny, 
instead  of  a  martyr,  in  defence  of  religious  liberty  against 
the  encroachments  of  the  civil  authority ;  if  Cardinal  Wol- 
sey  be  held  up  to  public  scorn  as  a  proud  and  selfish  prince 
of  the  Church,  a  glutton,  and  a  wine-bibber,  instead  of  a 
skilful  administrator  of  government,  a  liberal  patron  of 
learning,  and  all  good  arts,  and  the  sole  restrainer  of  the 


NAPOLEON  THE  THIRD.  147 

evil  passions  of  the  most  shameless  tyrant  who  ever  sat 
upon  the  English  throne ;  if  Cardinal  Richelieu  be  handed 
down  from  generation  to  generation,  painted  in  the  blackest 
colours,  as  a  scheming  politician,  in  whose  heart,  wile  and 
cruelty  were  mixed  up  in  equal  parts,  instead  of  a  sagacious 
and  inflexible  statesman,  and  a  patriot  who  made  every 
thing  (even  his  religion)  bend  to  his  devotion  to  the  glory 
of  his  beloved  France ;  if  these  great  men  have  been  thus 
misrepresented  in  that  history  which  De  Maistre  aptly  calls 
"  a  conspiracy  against  truth,"  I  do  not  think  that  Napo- 
leon III.  can  reasonably  complain  of  finding  himself  de- 
nounced as  a  tyrant,  a  perjurer,  and  a  victim  of  all  the  bad 
passions  that  vex  the  human  heart,  instead  of  a  liberator  of 
his  country  from  that  many-headed  monstrosity,  miscalled 
the  Repuhlique  Frangaise,  an  unswerving  supporter  of  the 
cause  of  law  and  religion,  and  the  architect  of  the  present 
glory  and  prosperity  of  France.  It  must  be  a  great  conso- 
lation to  the  Emperor,  under  the  slanders  which  have  been 
heaped  upon  him,  to  reflect  that  their  authors  and  the  ene- 
mies who  hate  him  worst,  are,  for  the  most  part,  infidels 
and  assassins,  and  enemies  of  social  order.  Whatever 
errors  a  man  may  commit,  he  cannot  be  far  from  the  course 
of  right  so  long  as  he  is  hated  and  feared  by  people  of  that 
desperate  stamp.  The  ancient  adage  tells  us  that  "  a  cat 
may  look  at  a  king ; "  and  it  is,  perhaps,  a  merciful  pro- 
vision of  the  law  of  compensation  that  the  base  reptiles 
which  fatten  on  the  offal  of  slander  are  permitted  to  trail 
their  slime  over  a  name  which  is  the  synonyme  of  the 
power  and  glory  of  France. 

When  the  prejudices  of  the  present  day  shall  have  died 
out,  the  historian  will  relate  how  devoted  Napoleon  111. 
was  to  every  thing  that  concerned  his  country's  welfare. 
He  will  tell  of  his  ceaseless  care  for  the  most  common 
wants  of  his  people,  and  of  his  vigilance  in  enforcing 


148  AOUECHEEK. 

laws  against  those  who  wronged  the  poor  by  their  dishonest 
dealings  in  the  necessaries  of  life.  He  will  relate  how 
promptly  he  turned  his  back  upon  nobles  and  ambassadors 
to  visit  some  of  his  people  who  had  been  overwhelmed  by 
a  terrible  calamity,  and  will  describe  the  kind,  fatherly  man- 
ner in  which  he  went  among  them,  carrying  succour  and 
consolation  to  all.  He  will  not  compare  the  Emperor  to  his 
great  warrior-uncle  ;  he  will  contrast  the  two.  He  will 
show  how  the  uncle  made  all  Europe  fear  and  hate  him, 
and  how  the  nephew  converted  his  enemies  into  allies  ;  how 
the  uncle  manured  the  soil  of  Europe  with  the  bones  of  his 
soldiers,  and  the  nephew,  having  given  splendid  proofs  of  his 
ability  to  make  war,  won  for  himself  the  title  of  "  the  Pa- 
cificator of  Europe ; "  how  the  uncle,  through  his  hot-headed 
ambition,  finally  made  France  the  prey  of  a  hostile  alliance, 
and  the  nephew  brought  the  representatives  of  all  the  Eu- 
ropean powers  around  him  in  his  capital  to  make  peace 
under  his  supervision. 

The  man  who,  after  thirty  years  of  exile  jind  six  years 
of  close  imprisonment,  can  take  a  country  in  the  chaotic 
condition  in  which  France  found  itself  after  the  revolution 
of  1848,  and  reorganize  its  government,  place  its  financial 
affairs  on  a  better  footing  than  they  have  been  before  within 
the  memory  of  man,  double  its  commerce,  and  raise  it  to 
the  highest  place  among  the  states  of  Europe,  cannot  be  an 
ordinary  man.  In  1852,  the  Emperor  said,  "  France,  in 
crowning  me,  crowns  herself;"  and  he  has  proved  the  lit- 
eral truth  of  his  words.  He  has  given  France  peace, 
prosperity,  and  a  stable  government.  He  has  imitated 
Napoleon  I.  in  every  one  of  his  great  and  praiseworthy 
actions  in  his  civil  capacity,  while  he  has  not  made  a 
single  one  of  his  mistakes.  And  if  "he  that  ruleth  his 
own  spirit  is  greater  than  he  that  taketh  a  city,"  this 
remarkable  man,  whose  self-control  is  undisturbed  by  his 


NAPOLEON  THE  THIRD.  149 

most  unparalleled  success,  is  destined  to  be  known  in  his- 
tory as  Napoleon  the  Great. 

The  character  of  Napoleon  III.  is  marked  by  a  unity 
and  a  consistency  such  as  invariably  have  distinguished 
the  greatest  men.  We  can  see  this  consistency  in  his  fidel- 
ity to  the  cause  of  law  and  order,  whether  it  be  manifested 
in  his  services  as  a  special  constable  against  the  Chartists 
of  England,  or  as  the  chief  magistrate  of  his  nation  against 
the  Chartists  of  France.  And  to  this  conspicuous  virtue 
of  steadfastness  he  adds  a  wonderful  universality  of  acquire- 
ments and  natural  genius.  "We  see  him  contracting  favour- 
able loans  and  averting  impending  dangers  in  the  monetary 
affairs  of  France,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  his  early  life  had 
been  spent  amid  the  clamours  of  the  Bourse ;  we  see  him 
concentrating  troops  in  his  capital  against  the  threats  of  the 
revolutionists,  or  designing  campaigns  against  the  greatest 
military  powers  of  Europe ;  we  see  him  m^iintaining  a 
perfect  composure  in  the  midst  of  deadly  missiles  which 
were  expected  to  terminate  his  reign  and  dynasty,  and  it 
would  seem  as  if  the  camp  had  always  been  his  home,  and 
the  dangers  of  the  battle-field  his  familiar  associations; 
we  see  him  buying  up  grain  to  prevent  speculators  from 
oppressing  his  people  during  a  season  of  scarcity,  or  impris- 
oning bakers  for  a  deficiency  in  the  weight  of  their  loaves, 
or  regulating  the  sales  of  meats  and  vegetables,  —  and  it 
would  seem  as  if  he  always  had  been  a  prudent  house- 
keeper and  a  profound  student  of  domestic  economy ;  we 
see  him  laying  out  parks,  projecting  new  streets  and  public 
buildings,  and  we  question  whether  he  has  paid  most  atten- 
tion to  architecture,  engineering,  or  landscape-gardening; 
we  see  him  visiting  his  subjects  when  they  have  been  over- 
whelmed by  a  great  calamity,  and  he  would  seem  to  have 
been  a  disciple  of  St.  Thomas  of  Villanueva,  or  of  St.  Vin- 
cent of  Paul ;  we  see  him  taking  the  lead  amid  the  chief 
13* 


150  AGUECUEEK. 

statesmen  and  diplomatists  of  the  world,  we  read  his  pow- 
erful state  papers  and  speeches,  and  we  wonder  where  he 
acquired  his  experience ;  we  see  him,  in  short,  under  all 
circumstances,  and  it  appears  that  there  is  nothing  that  con- 
cerns his  country's  welfare  or  glory  too  difficult  for  him  to 
grapple  with,  nor  any  thing  affecting  the  happiness  of  his 
poorest  subject  trivial  enough  for  him  to  overlook.  By  his 
advocacy  of  the  cause  of  the  Church,  he  has  won  a  place  in 
history  by  the  side  of  Constantino  and  Charlemagne ;  by  his 
internal  policy  and  care  for  the  needs  of  his  subjects,  his 
name  deserves  to  be  inscribed  with  those  of  St,  Louis  and 
Alfred.  The  language  which  Bulwer  has  put  into  the 
mouth  of  Cardinal  Richelieu  might  be  used  by  Napoleon 
III.,  and  would  from  him  be  only  the  language  of  historical 
truth:  — 

"  I  found  France  rent  asunder. 
Sloth  in  the  mart  and  schism  within  the  temple, 
Brawls  festering  to  rebellion,  and  weak  laws 
Rotting  away  with  rust  —    ♦     •     •     ♦ 
/  have  re-created  France,  and  from  the  ashes 
Civilization  on  her  luminous  wings 
Soars  phoenix-like  to  Jove !  " 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OP  FOREIGN  TRAVEL. 

Foreign  travel  is  one  of  .the  most  useful  branches  of  our 
education,  but,  like  a  great  many  other  useful  branches,  it 
appears  to  be  "  gone  through  with  "  by  many  persons  merely 
as  a  matter  of  course.  It  is  astonishing  how  few  people 
out  of  the  great  number  constantly  making  the  tour  of 
Europe  really  carry  home  any  thing  to  show  for  it  except 
photographs  and  laces.  Foreign  travel  ought  to  rub  the 
comers  oflF  a  man's  character,  and  give  him  a  polish  such  as 
"  home-keeping  youth  "  can  never  acquire ;  yet  how  many 
we  see  who  seem  to  have  increased  their  natural  rudeness 
and  inconsiderateness  by  a  continental  trip !  Foreign  travel 
ought  to  soften  prejudices,  religious  or  political,  and  liberal- 
ize a  man's  mind ;  but  how  many  there  are  who  seem  to 
have  travelled  for  the  purpose  of  getting  up  their  rancour 
against  all  that  is  opposed  to  their  notions,  making  them- 
selves illustrations  of  Tom  Hood's  remark,  that  "some 
minds  resemble  copper  wire  or  brass,  and  get  the  narrower 
by  going  farther."  Foreign  travel,  while  it  shows  a  man 
more  clearly  the  faults  of  his  own  country,  ought  to  make 
him  love  his  country  more  dearly  than  before ;  yet  how 
often  does  it  have  the  effect  of  making  a  man  undervalue 
his  home  and  his  old  friends  !  There  must  be  some  gen- 
eral reason  why  foreign  travel  produces  its  legitimate  fruits 
in  so  few  instances ;  and  I  have,  during  several  European 
tours,  endeavoured  to  ascertain  it.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  it  is  a  general  lack  of  preparation  for  travel,  and  a  mis- 
taken notion  that  "  sight-seeing  "  is  the  chief  end  of  travel- 
ling.   The  expenses  of  the  passage  across  the  Atlantic  are 

(151) 


152  AOUECHEEK. 

diminishing  every  year,  and  when  the  motive  power  in 
electricity  is  discovered  and  applied,  the  expense  of  the 
trip  will  be  a  mere  trifle ;  and  in  view  of  these  considera- 
tions, I  feel  that,  though  I  might  find  a  more  entertaining 
subject  for  a  letter,  I  cannot  find  a  more  instructive  one 
than  the  philosophy  of  European  travel. 

Concerning  the  expense  of  foreign  travel,  there  are 
many  erroneous  notions  afloat.  There  are  hundreds  of 
persons  in  America  —  artists,  and  students,  and  persons  of 
small  means  —  who  are  held  back  from  what  is  to  them  a 
land  of  promise,  by  the  mistaken  idea  that  it  is  expensive 
to  travel  in  Europe.  They  know  that  Bayard  Taylor  made 
a  tour  on  an  incredibly  small  sura,  and  they  think  that  they 
have  not  his  tact  in  management,  nor  his  self-denial  in 
regard  to  the  common  .wants  of  life ;  but  if  they  will  put 
aside  a  few  of  their  false  American  prejudices,  they  will 
find  that  they  can  travel  in  Europe  almost  as  cheaply  as 
they  can  live  at  home.  In  America,  we  have  an  aristocracy 
of  the  pocket,  which  is  far  more  tyrannical,  and  much  less 
respectable,  than  any  aristocracy  of  blood  on  this  side  of 
the  water ;  for  every  man  feels  an  instinctive  respect  for 
another  who  can  trace  his  lineage  back  to  some  brave  sol- 
dier whose  deeds  have  shone  in  his  country's  history  for 
centuries  ;  but  it  requires  a  peculiarly  constituted  mind  to 
bow  down  to  a  man  whose  chief  claim  to  respect  is  founded 
in  the  fact  of  his  having  made  a  large  fortune  in  the  pork 
or  dry  goods  line.  Jinkins  is  a  rich  man  ;  he  lives  in  style, 
and  fares  sumptuously  every  day.  Jones  is  one  of  Jin- 
kins's  neighbours  ;  he  is  not  so  rich  as  Jinkins,  but  he  feels 
a  natural  ambition  to  keep  up  with  him  in  his  establishment, 
and  he  does  so ;  the  rivalry  becomes  contagious,  and  the 
consequence  is,  that  a  score  of  well-meaning  people  find,  to 
their  dismay,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  that  they  have  been 
living  beyond  their  means.    Now,  if  people  wish  to  travel 


FOREIGN   TRAVEL.  153 

reasonably  in  Europe,  the  first  thing  that  they  must  do  is 
to  get  rid  of  the  Jones  and  Jinkins  standard  of  respectabil- 
ity. I  have  seen  many  people  who  were  content  to  live  at 
home  in  a  very  moderate  sort  of  way,  who,  when  they 
came  to  travel,  seemed  to  require  all  the  style  and  luxury 
of  a  foreign  prince.  Such  people  may  go  all  over  Europe, 
and  see  very  little  of  it  except  the  merest  outside  crust. 
They  might  just  as  well  live  in  a  fashionable  hotel  in 
America,  and  visit  Mr.  Battler's  cosmoramas.  They  re- 
semble those  unfortunate  persons  who  have  studied  the 
classics  from  Anthon's  text-books  —  they  have  got  a  gen- 
eral notion,  but  of  the  mental  discipline  of  the  study  they 
are  entirely  ignorant.  But  let  me  go  into  particulars  con- 
cerning the  expenses  of  travelling.  I  know  that  a  person 
can  go  by  a  sailing  vessel  from  Boston  to  Genoa,  spend  a 
week  or  more  in  Genoa  and  on  the  road  to  Florence,  pass 
two  or  three  weeks  in  that  delightful  city,  and  two  months 
in  Rome,  then  come  to  Paris,  and  stay  here  two  or  three 
weeks,  then  go  to  London  for  a  month  or  more,  and  home 
by  way  of  Liverpool  in  a  steamer,  for  less  than  four  hun- 
dred dollars ;  for  I  did  it  myself  several  years  ago.  Dur- 
ing this  trip,  I  lived  and  travelled  respectably  all  the  time 
—  that  is,  what  is  called  respectably  in  Europe.  I  went  in 
the  second  class  cars,  and  in 'the  forward  cabins  of  the 
steamers.  Jones  and  Jinkins  went  in  the  first  class  cars 
and  in  the  after  cabins,  and  paid  a  good  deal  more  money 
for  the  same  pleasure  that  cost  me  so  little.  I  know,  too, 
that  a  person  can  sail  from  Boston  to  Liverpool,  make  a 
summer  trip  of  two  months  and  a  half  to  Paris,  via  Lon- 
don and  the  cities  of  Belgium,  and  back  to  Boston  via 
London  and  Liverpool,  for  a  trifle  over  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars.  A  good  room  in  London  can  be  got  for  two 
dollars  and  a  half  a  week,  in  Paris  for  eight  dollars  a 
month,  in  Rome  and  Florence  for  four  dollars  a  month,  and 


154  AGUECHEEK. 

in  the  cities  of  Germany  for  very  considerably  less. 
And  a  good  dinner  costs  about  thirty  cents  in  London, 
thirty-five  in  Paris,  fifteen  to  twenty-five  in  Florence  or 
Rome,  and  even  less  in  Germany.  Breakfast,  which  is 
made  very  little  of  on  the  continent,  generally  damages 
one's  exchequer  to  the  extent  of  five  to  ten  cents.  It  will 
be  seen  from  this  scale  of  prices  that  one  can  live  very 
cheaply  if  he  will ;  and,  as  the  inhabitants  of  a  country 
may  be  supposed  to  know  the  requirements  of  its  climate 
better  than  strangers,  common  sense  would  dictate  the 
adoption  of  their  style  of  living. 

I  need  not  say  that  some  knowledge  of  the  French  lan- 
guage is  absolutely  indispensable  to  one  who  would  travel 
with  any  satisfaction  in  Europe.  This  is  the  most  impor- 
tant general  preparation  that  can  be  made  for  going  abroad. 
Next  after  it,  I  should  place  a  review  of  the  history  of  the 
countries  about  to  be  visited.  The  outlines  of  the  history 
of  the  different  countries  of  Europe,  published  by  the 
English  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge, 
are  admirably  adapted  to  this  purpose.  This  gives  a 
reality  to  the  scenes  you  are  about  to  visit  that  they  would 
not  otherwise  possess  ;  it  peoples  the  very  roadside  for  you 
with  heroes.  And  not  only  does  it  impart  a  reality  to  your 
travels,  but  history  itself  becomes  a  reality  to  you,  instead 
of  being  a  mere  barren  record  of  events,  hard  to  be  re- 
membered. At  this  time,  when  the  neglect  of  classical 
studies  is  apparent  in  almost  every  book,  newspaper,  and 
magazine,  I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  be  thought  somewhat 
old-fashioned  and  out  of  date,  if  I  say  that  some  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Latin  classics  is  necessary  before  a  man  can 
really  enjoy  Italy.  Yet  it  is  so ;  and  it  will  be  a  great  sat- 
isfaction to  any  man  to  find  that  Horace  and  Virgil,  and 
Cicero  and  Livy,  are  something  more  than  the  hard  tasks 
of  chiWhood.     Should  a  man's  classical  studies,  however, 


FOREIGN  TRAVEL.  155 

be  weak,  the  deficiency  can  be  made  up  in  some  measure 
by  the  judicious  use  of  translations,  and  by  Eustace's 
Classical  Tour.  Murray's  admirable  hand-books  of  course 
will  supply  a  vast  amount  of  information ;  but  it  will  not 
do  to  trust  to  reading  them  upon  the  spot.  Some  prepara- 
tion must  be  made  beforehand,  —  some  capital  is  necessary 
to  start  in  business.  "  If  you  would  bring  home  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies,  you  must  carry  out  the  wealth  of  the  Indies." 
It  would  be  well,  too,  for  a  person  about  to  visit  Europe  to 
prepare  himself  for  a  quieter  life  than  he  has  been  leading 
at  home.  I  mean,  to  tone  himself  down  so  as  to  be  able  to 
enjoy  the  freedom  from  excitement  which  awaits  him  here. 
It  is  now  more  than  a  year  since  I  left  America,  and  like- 
wise more  than  a  year  since  I  have  seen  any  disorderly 
conduct,  or  a  quarrel,  or  even  have  heard  high  words  be- 
tween two  parties  in  the  street,  or  have  known  of  an  alarm 
of  fire.  In  the  course  of  the  year,  too,  I  have  not  seen 
half  a  dozen  intoxicated  persons.  When  we  reflect  what  a 
fruitful  source  of  excitement  all  these  things  are  in  Amer- 
ica, it  will  be  easy  to  see  that  a  man  may  have,  compara- 
tively, a  very  quiet  life  where  they  are  not  to  be  found. 
It  will  not  do  any  harm,  either,  to  prepare  one's  self  by 
assuming  a  little  more  consideration  for  the  feelings  of 
others  than  is  generally  seen  among  us,  and  by  learning  to 
address  servants  with  a  little  less  of  the  imperious  manner 
which  is  so  common  in  America.  Strange  as  it  may  seem, 
there  is  much  less  distinction  of  classes  on  the  continent, 
than  in  republican  America.  You  are  astonished  to  find 
the  broadcloth  coat  and  the  blouse  interchanging  the  civil- 
ities of  a  "  light "  in  the  streets,  and  the  easy,  familiar  way 
of  servants  towards  their  masters  is  a  source  of  great  sur- 
prise. You  seldom  see  a  Frenchman  or  an  Italian  receive 
any  thing  from  a  servant  without  thanking  him  for  it.  Yet 
there  appears  to  be  a  perfectly  good  understanding  between 


156  AGUECHEEK.    * 

all  parties  as  to  their  relative  position,  and  with  all  their 
familiarity,  I  have  never  seen  a  servant  presume  upon  the 
good  nature  of  his  employer,  as  they  often  do  with  us.  We 
receive  our  social  habits  in  a  great  measure  from  Eng- 
land, and  therefore  we  have  got  that  hard  old  English  way 
of  treating  servants,  as  if  our  object  was  to  make  them  feel 
that  they  are  inferiors.  So  the  sooner  a  man  who  is  going 
to  travel  on  the  continent,  can  get  that  notion  out  of  his 
head,  and  replace  it  with  the  continental  one,  which  seems 
to  be,  that  a  servant,  so  long  as  he  is  faithful  in  the  dis- 
charge of  his  duties,  is  quite  as  respectable  a  member  of 
society  as  his  employer,  the  better  it  will  be  for  him,  and 
the  pleasanter  will  be  his  sojourn  in  Europe. 

One  of  the  first  mistakes  Americans  generally  make  in 
leaving  for  Europe  is,  to  take  too  much  luggage.  Presup- 
posing a  sufficiency  of  under-clotliing,  all  that  any  person 
really  needs  is  a  good,  substantial  travelling  suit,  and  a  suit 
of  black,  including  a  black  dress  coat,  which  is  indispensa- 
ble for  all  occasions  of  ceremony.  The  Sistine  chapel  is 
closed  to  frock  coats,  and  so  is  the  Opera  —  and  as  for  even- 
ing parties,  a  man  might  as  well  go  in  a  roundabout  as  in 
any  thing  but  a  dress  coat.  Clothing  is  at  least  one  third 
cheaper  in  Europe  than  it  is  with  us,  and  any  deficiency 
can  be  supplied  with  ease,  without  carrying  a  large  ward- 
robe around  with  one,  and  paying  the  charges  for  extra 
luggage  exacted  by  the  continental  railways. 

Let  us  now  suppose  a  person  to  have  got  fairly  off, 
having  read  up  his  classics  and  his  history,  and  got  his 
luggage  into  a  single  good-sized  valise,  —  let  us  suppose 
him  to  have  got  over  the  few  days  of  seasickness,  which 
made  him  wish  that  Europe  had  been  submerged  by  the 
broad  ocean  (as  Mr.  Choate  would  say)  or  ever  he  had  left 
his  native  land,  —  and  to  have  passed  those  few  pleasant 
days,  which  every  one  remembers  in  his  Atlantic  passage, 


FOREIGN   TRAVEL.  157 

when  the  ship  was  literally  getting  along  "  by  degrees  "  on 
her  course,  — and  to  have  arrived  safely  in  some  European 
port.  The^custom  house  officers  commence  the  examina- 
tion of  the  luggage,  looking  especially  for  tobacco  ;  and  if 
our  fiiend  is  a  wise  man,  he  will  not  attempt  to  bribe  the 
officei"s,  as  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  he  will  increase  his  dif- 
ficulties by  so  doing,  and  cause  his  effects  to  be  examined 
with  double  care ;  but  he  will  open  his  trunk,  and,  if  he 
have  any  cigars,  will  show  them  to  the  examiner,  and  if  he 
have  not,  he  will  undoubtedly  be  told  to  close  it  again,  and 
will  soon  be  on  his  way  to  his  hotel.  I  suppose  him  to  have 
selected  a  hotel  before  arriving  in  port  —  which  would  be 
done  by  carefully  avoiding  those  houses  which  make  a  great 
show,  or  are  highly  commended  in  Murray's  guide-books. 
He  will  find  a  neat,  quiet  European  hotel  a  delightful  place, 
after  the  gilding  and  red  velvet  of  the  great  caravanseries 
of  his  native  country.  If  he  is  going  to  stop  more  than  a 
single  night,  he  will  ask  the  price  of  the  room  to  which  he 
is  shown,  and  if  it  seems  too  expensive,  will  look  until  he 
finds  one  that  suits  him.  When  he  has  selected  a  room,  and 
his  valise  has  been  brought  up,  he  will  probably  observe 
that  the  servant  (if  it  is  evening)  has  lighted  both  of 
the  candles  on  the  mantel-piece.  He  will  immediately  blow 
one  of  them  out  and  hand  it  to  the  waiter,  with  a  look  that 
will  show  him  that  he  is  dealing  with  an  experienced  trav- 
eller, who  knows  that  he  has  to  pay  for  candles  as  he 
bums  them.  When  he  leaves  the  hotel,  he  will  make  it  a 
principle  always  to  carry  the  unconsumed  candle  or  candles 
with  him,  for  use  as  occasion  may  require ;  for  it  is  the 
custom  of  the  country,  and  will  secure  him  against  the  little 
impositions  which  are  always  considered  fair  play  upon  out- 
siders. It  is  possible  that  he  will  find,  when  he  goes  to  wash 
his  hands,  that  there  is  no  soap  in  the  wash  stand,  and  will 
thank  me  for  having  reminded  him  to  carry  a  cake  with 
14 


158  AGUECHEEK. 

him  rolled  up  in  a  bit  of  oiled  silk.  When  he  wishes  to 
take  lodgings  in  any  city,  he  will  be  particular  to  avoid  that 
part  of  the  town  where  English  people  mostly  do  inhabit, 
and  will  be  very  shy  of  houses  where  apartments  to  let  are 
advertised  on  a  placard  in  phrases  which  the  originator 
probably  intended  for  English.  He  will  look  thoroughly 
before  he  decides,  and  so  will  save  himself  a  great  deal  of 
dissatisfaction  which  he  might  feel  on  finding  afterwards 
that  others  had  done  much  better  than  he.  Besides,  "  room- 
hunting  "  is  not  the  least  profitable,  nor  least  amusing  part 
of  a  traveller's  experience.  He  will,  when  settled  in  his 
rooms,  attend  in  person  to  the  purchase  of  his  candles  and 
his  fuel,  and  to  the  delivery  of  the  same  in  his  apartments ; 
for  by  so  doing  he  will  save  money,  and  will  see  more  of 
the  common  people  of  the  place. 

Of  course  he  will  see  all  the  "  sights  "  that  every  stran- 
ger is  under  a  sort  of  moral  obligation  to  see,  however 
much  it  may  fatigue  him  ;  but  he  must  not  stop  there.  He 
must  not  think,  as  so  many  appear  to,  that,  when  he  has  seen 
the  palaces,  and  picture  galleries,  and  gardens,  and  public 
monuments  of  a  country,  he  knows  that  country.  He  must 
try  to  see  and  know  as  much  as  he  can  of  the  people  of  the 
country,  for  they  (Louis  Quatorze  to  the  contrary,  not- 
withstanding) are  the  state.  Let  him  cultivate  the  habit 
of  early  rising,  and  frequent  market  places  and  old  parish 
churches  in  the  twilight  of  the  morning,  and  he  will  learn 
more  of  the  people  in  one  month  than  a  year  of  reading  or 
ordinary  sight-seeing  could  teach  him.  Let  him  choose 
back  alleys,  instead  of  crowded  and  fashionable  thorough- 
fares for  his  walks ;  when  he  falls  in  with  a  wandering 
musician  and  juggler,  exhibiting  in  public,  let  him  stop,  not 
to  see  the  exhibition,  but  the  spectators  ;  when  he  goes  to 
the  theatre,  let  him  not  shut  himself  up  in  the  privacy  of  a 
box,  but  go  into  the  pit,  where  all  he  will  see  and  hear 


FOREIGN   TEIVFX.  169 

aiound  him  will  be  full  as  amusing  as  the  performance 
itself;  and  when  he  uses  an  omnibus,  let  him  always  choose 
a  seat  by  the  driver,  in  preference  to  one  inside.  I  have 
learnt  more  of  the  religious  character  of  the  poorer  class  in 
Paris,  by  a  visit  to  a  little  out-of-the-way  church  at  sunrise, 
than  could  be  acquired  by  hours  of  conversation  with  the 
people  themselves.  And  I  have  learned  equally  as  much 
of  the  brutality  and  degradation  of  the  same  class  in  Eng- 
land, by  going  into  a  gin-shop  late  at  night,  calling  for  a 
glass  of  ale,  and  drinking  it  slowly,  while  I  was  inspecting 
the  company.  There  is  many  a  man  who  travels  through 
Europe,  communicating  only  with  hotel  keepers,  couriers, 
and  ciceroni,  and  learning  less  of  the  people  than  he  could 
by  walking  into  a  market-place  alone,  and  buying  a  sixpence 
worth  of  fruit.  Yet  such  men  presume  to  write  books,  and 
treat  not  merely  of  the  governments  of  these  countries,  but 
of  the  social  condition  of  the  people !  I  once  met  a  man  in 
Italy,  who  could  not  order  his  breakfast  correctly  in  Italian, 
who  knew  only  one  Italian,  and  he  was  the  waiter  who 
served  him  in  a  restaurant ;  and  yet  this  man  was  a  corre- 
spondent of  a  I'espectable  paper  in  Boston,  and  had  the 
effrontery  to  write  column  after  column  upon  Italian  social 
life,  and  to  speak  of  political  affairs  as  if  he  were  Cardinal 
Antonelli's  sole  confidant.  There  are  such  people  here  in 
Paris  now,  who  send  over  to  America,  weekly,  batches  of 
falsehood  about  the  household  of  the  Tuileries,  which  the 
intelligent  public  of  America  accepts  as  being  true ;  for  it 
seems  to  be  a  part  of  some  people's  republicanism  to  be- 
lieve nothing  but  evil  of  a  ruler  who  wears  a  crown.  I 
need  not  say  in  this  connection,  that  the  traveller  who  wishes 
to  enjoy  Europe  must  put  away  the  habit  (if  he  be  so 
unfortunate  as  to  have  it)  of  looking  upon  every  thing 
through  the  green  spectacles  of  republicanism,  and  regarding 
that  form  of  government  as  the  only  one  calculated  to  bene- 


160  AGUECHEEE. 

fit  mankind.  He  must  remember  that  the  government 
of  his  own  country  is  a  mere  experiment,  compared  with 
the  old  monarchies  of  Europe,  and  he  must  try  to  judge 
impartially  between  them.  He  must  judge  each  system  by 
its  results,  and  if  on  comparison  he  finds  that  there  is  really 
less  slavery  in  his  own  country  than  in  Europe ;  that  the 
government  is  administered  more  impartially ;  that  the  ju- 
diciary is  purer  ;  that  there  is  less  of  mob  law  and  violence, 
and  less  of  political  bargaining  and  trickery,  and  that  life 
and  property  are  more  secure  in  his  own  country  than  they 
are  here,  —  why,  he  will  return  to  America  a  better  repub- 
lican than  before,  from  the  very  fact  of  having  done  justice 
to  the  governments  of  Europe. 

As  I  have  before  said,  it  is  better  for  a  traveller  to  en- 
deavour to  live  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  manner  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  country  in  which  he  is  sojourning.  I  do 
not  mean  that  he  should  feel  bound  to  make  as  general  a 
use  of  garlic  as  some  of  the  people  of  Europe  do,  for  in 
some  places  I  verily  believe  that  a  custard  or  a  blanc  mange 
would  be  thought  imperfect  if  they  were  not  seasoned  with 
that  savory  vegetable ;  but,  ceteris  being  paribus,  if  the 
general  manner  of  living  were  followed,  the  traveller  would 
find  it  conducive  to  health  and  to  economy.  The  habits  of 
life  among  every  people  are  not  founded  on  a  mere  caprice ; 
and  experience  proves  that  under  the  warm  sun  of  Italy,  a 
light  vegetable  diet  is  healthier  and  more  really  invigorating 
than  all  the  roast  beef  of  Old  England  would  be. 

In  Europe,  no  man  is  ever  ashamed  of  economy.  Few 
Englishmen  even  shrink  from  acknowledging  that  they  can- 
not afford  to  do  this  or  that,  and  on  the  continent  profuse- 
ness  in  the  use  of  money  is  considered  the  sure  mark  of  a 
parvenu.  Every  man  is  free  to  do  as  he  pleases ;  he  can 
travel  in  the  first,  second,  or  third  class  on  the  railways,  and 
not  excite  the  surprise  of  any  body ;  and  whatever  class  he 


FOREIGN  TRAVEL.  161 

may  be  in,  he  will  be  treated  with  equal  respect  by  all.  It 
is  well  to  bear  this  in  mind,  for,  taken  in  connection  with 
the  principle  of  paying  for  one's  room  and  meals  separately 
according  to  what  one  has,  it  puts  it  within  one's  power  to 
travel  all  over  Europe  for  a  ridiculously  small  sura.  You 
can  live  in  Paris,  by  going  over  into  the  Latin  quarter,  on 
thirty  cents  a  day,  and  be  treated  by  every  body,  except 
your  own  countrymen,  with  as  much  consideration  as  if  you 
abode  among  the  mirrors  and  gilding  of  the  Hotel  de  Louvre. 
Not  that  I  would  advise  any  one  to  go  over  there  for  the 
sake  of  saving  money,  and  live  on  salads  and  meats  in  which 
it  is  difficult  to  have  confidence,  when  he  can  afford  to  do 
better.  I  only  wish  to  encourage  those  who  are  kept  from 
visiting  Europe  by  the  idea  that  it  requires  a  great  outlay 
of  money.  You  can  live  in  Europe  for  just  what  you  choose 
to  spend,  and  in  a  style  of  independence  to  which  America 
is  a  total  stranger.  Every  body  does  not  know  here  what 
every  body  else  has  for  dinner.  You  may  live  on  the 
same  floor  with  a  man  for  months  and  years,  and  not  know 
any  more  of  him  than  can  be  learned  from  a  semi-occasional 
meeting  on  tlie  staircase,  and  an  interchange  of  hat  civili- 
ties. This  seems  so  common  to  a  Frenchman,  that  it  would 
be  considered  by  him  hardly  worth  notice ;  but  to  any  one 
who  knows  what  a  sharp  look-out  neighbours  keep  over  each 
other  in  America,  it  is  a  most  pleasing  phenomenon.  It  is 
indeed  a  delightful  thing  to  live  among  people  who  have 
formed  a  habit  of  minding  their  own  business,  and  at  the 
same  time  have  a  spirit  of  consideration  for  the  rights  and 
feelings  of  their  neighbours. 

If,  in  the  above  hints  concerning  the  way  to  travel  pleas- 
antly and  cheaply  in  Europe,  I  have  succeeded  in  removing 
any  of  the  bugbear  obstacles  which  hold  back  so  many  from 
the  great  advantages  they  might  here  enjoy,  I  shall  feel  that 
I  have  not  tasked  my  poor  eyes  and  brain  for  nothing.  We 
14* 


162  AGUECHEEK. 

are  a  long  way  behind  Europe  in  many  things,  and  it  is 
only  by  frequent  communication  that  we  can  make  up  our 
deficiencies.  It  cannot  be  done  by  boasting,  nor  by  claim- 
ing for  America  all  the  enterprise  and  enlightenment  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Neither  can  it  be  done  by  setting  up 
the  United  States  as  superior  to  every  historical  precedent, 
and  an  exception  to  every  rule.  Most  men  (as  the  old 
French  writer  says)  are  mortal ;  and  we  Americans  shall 
find  that  our  country,  with  all  its  prosperity  and  unequalled 
progress,  is  subject  to  the  same  vicissitudes  as  the  countries 
we  now  think  we  can  afford  to  despise ;  and  that  our  his- 
tory is 

" but  the  same  rehearsal'of  the  past  — 

First  Freedom,  and  then  Glory ;  when  that  fails, 
Wealth,  vice,  corruption,  —  barbarism  at  last." 

No,  we  cannot  safely  scorn  the  lesson  which  Europe 
teaches  us ;  for  if  we  do,  we  shall  have  to  learn  it  at  the  ex- 
pense of  much  adversity  and  wounding  of  our  pride.  Every 
American  who  comes  abroad,  if  he  knows  how  to  travel, 
ought  to  carry  home  with  him  a  new  idea  of  the  amenities  of 
life,  and  of  moderation  in  the  pursuit  and  the  use  of  wealth, 
such  as  will  make  itself  felt  in  the  course  of  time,  and  make 
the  fast  living  and  recklessness  of  authority  and  tendency  to 
bankruptcy  of  the  present  day,  give  way  to  a  spirit  of  mod- 
eration and  obedience  to  law  such  as  always  produces  pri- 
vate prosperity  and  public  stability. 


PARIS  TO  BOULOGNE. 

It  was  a  delicious  morning  when  I  packed  my  trunk  to 
leave  Paris.  Indeed  it  was  so  bright  and  cloudless  that  it 
seemed  wrong  to  go  away  and  leave  so  fine  a  combination 
of  perfections.  It  was  more  than  the  "  bridal  of  the  earth 
and  sky ;"  it  was  the  bridal  of  all  the  created  beings  around 
one  and  their  works  with  the  sky.  The  deep  blue  of  the 
heavens,  the  glittering  sunbeams,  the  clean  streets,  the  fair 
house  fronts,  the  gay  shop  windows,  the  white  caps,  and 
shining  morning  faces  of  the  bonnes  and  market  women,  the 
busy,  prosperous  look  of  the  passers  by,  were  all  blended 
together  in  one  harmonious  whole,  more  touching  and  po- 
etical than  any  scene  of  mere  natural  beauty  that  the  dewy 
mom,  "  with  breath  all  incense  and  with  cheek  all  bloom," 
ever  looked  upon.  "  Earth  hath  not  any  thing  to  show 
more  fair."  Others  may  delight  in  communing  with  solitary 
nature,  and  may  rave  in  rhyme  about  the  glories  of  woods, 
lakes,  mountains,  and  Ausonian  skies  ;  but  what  is  all  that 
compared  to  the  awakening  of  a  great  city  to  the  life  of  day  ? 
What  are  the  floods  of  golden  light  that  every  morning 
bathe  the  mountain  tops,  and  are  poured  down  into  the  val- 
leys and  fields  below,  compared  to  the  playing  of  the  sun- 
beams in  the  smoke  from  ten  thousand  chimneys,  and  the 
din  of  toil  displacing  the  silence  of  night  ?  I  have  seen  the 
sunsets  of  the  Archipelago  —  I  have  seen  Lesbos  and  Egina 
clad  in  those  robes  of  purple  and  gold,  which  till  then  I  had 
thought  were  a  mere  figment  of  the  painter's  brain  —  I  have 
enjoyed  that  "hush  of  world's  expectation  as  day  died"^ 
I  have  often  drunk  in  the  glory  of  a  cloudless  sunrise  on 

(163) 


164  AGUECHEEK. 

tlic  Atlantic,  and  even  now  my  lieart  leaps  up  at  the  re- 
membrance of  it ;  but  after  all,  commend  me  to  the  deeper 
and  more  sympathetic  feelings  inspin  d  by  the  dingy  walls 
and  ungraceful  chimney-pots  of  a  metropolis.  Thousands  of 
human  hearts  are  there,  throbbing  with  hope,  or  joy,  or 
sorrow,  —  weighed  down  perchance  by  guilt ;  and  humanity 
with  all  its  imperfections  is  a  noble  thing.  A  single  human 
heart,  though  erring,  is  a  grander  creation  than  the  Alps  or 
the  Andes,  for  it  shall  outlive  them.  It  is  moved  by  aspi- 
rations that  outrun  the  universe,  and  possesses  a  destiny  that 
i^hall  outUve  the  stars.  It  is  the  better  side  of  human  na- 
ture that  we  see  in  the  early  morning  in  large  cities.  Vice 
flourishes  best  under  the  glare  of  gas-lights,  and  does  not 
f  alute  the  rising  sun.  The  bloated  form,  the  sunken  eye, 
the  j>iiinted  cheek,  stirink  from  that  which  would  make  their 
deformity  more  hideous,  and  hide  themselves  in  places 
which  their  presence  makes  almost  pestilential.  Honest, 
healthful  labour  meets  us  at  every  step,  and  imparts  to  us 
something  of  its  own  hopefulness  and  activity.  We  miss 
the  dew-drops  glittering  like  jewels  in  the  grass,  but  the  loss 
is  more  than  made  up  to  us  by  the  bright  eyes  of  happy 
children,  helping  their  parents  in  their  work,  or  sporting 
together  on  their  way  to  schooL 

There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  it  very  poetical  to  roam 
the  broad  fields  in  that  still  hour  when  the  golden  light 
seems  to  clasp  every  object  that  it  meets,  as  if  it  loved  it ; 
but  of  late  years  a  comfortable  sidewalk  has  been  more 
suggestive  of  poetry  and  less  productive  of  wet  feet.  Give 
me  a  level  pavement  before  all  your  groves  and  fields.  The 
only  rus  that  wears  well  in  the  long  run  is  Huss  in  urhe. 
Nine  tenths  of  all  the  fine  things  in  our  literature  concerning 
the  charms  of  country  life,  have  been  written,  not  beneath 
the  shade  of  overarching  boughs,  but  within  the  crowded 
city's  smoke-stained  walls.     Depend  upon  it,  Shakespeare 


PARIS  TO  BOULOGNE. 


1^ 


could  never  have  written  about  the  moonlight  sleeping  on 
the  bank  any  where  but  in  the  city  ;  had  the  realities  of 
country  life  been  present  to  him,  he  would  have  rejected 
any  such  metaphor,  for  he  loved  the  moonlight  too  dearly  to 
subject  it  to  the  rheumatic  attack  that  jpould  inevitably 
have  followed  such  a  nap  as  that.  It  is  with  country  life 
very  much  as  it  is  with  life  at  sea.  Mr.  Choate,  who  pours 
out  his  noblest  eloquence  on  the  glories  and  romance  of  the 
sea,  seldom  sees  the  outside  of  his  state-room  while  he  is 
out  of  sight  of  4and,  and  all  his  glowing  periods  are  forgotten 
in  the  realities  of  his  position.  So,  too,  the  man  who  wishes 
to  destroy  the  poetry  and  romance  of  country  life,  has  only 
to  walk  about  in  the  wet  grass  or  the  scorching  heat,  or  to 
be  obliged  to  pick  the  pebbles  out  of  his  shoes,  or  a  cater- 
pillar off  his  neck,  or  to  be  mocked  at  by  unruly  cattle,  or 
pestered  by  any  of  the  myriads  of  insects  and  reptiles  which 
abound  in  every  well-regulated  country. 

The  excellent  Madame  Busque  (la  dame  aux  pumpkin 
pies)  had  prepared  for  me  a  viaticum  in  the  shape  of  a 
small  loaf  of  as  good  gingerbread  as  was  ever  made  west  of 
Cape  Cod  —  a  motherly  attention  quite  in  keeping  with 
her  ordinary  way  of  taking  care  of  her  customers.  All  who 
frequent  the  cremerie  are  her  enfans,  and  if  she  does  not 
show  them  every  little  maternal  attention,  and  tie  a  bib 
upon  every  one's  neck,  it  is  only  that  we  may  know  better 
how  to  behave  when  we  are  beyond  the  reach  of  her  kindly 
hand.  Fortified  with  the  gingerbread,  I  found  myself  whirl- 
ing out  of  the  terminus  of  the  Northern  Railway,  and  Paris, 
with  its  far-stretching  fortifications,  its  domes  and  towers, 
and  its  windmill-crowned  Montmartre,  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

The  train  was  very  full,  and  the  weather  very  warm. 
Two  of  my  car-companions  afforded  me  a  good  deal  of 
amusement.  They  were  a  fat  German  and  his  wife.  He 
was  one   of  the  jolliest  old  gentlemen  I  ever  had  the 


166  AGUECHEEK. 

good  fortune  to  travel  with.  His  silvery  hair  was  cropped 
close  to  his  head,  and  he  rode  along  with  his  cuffs  turned 
up  and  his  waistcoat  open.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  he  was 
occupying  a  good  deal  of  room  ;"  but  he  was  the  only  one 
there  wlio  felt  it.  No  one  of  us  would  have  had  his  circum- 
ference reduced  an  inch,  but  we  should  all  of  us  have  de- 
lighted to  put  a  thin  man  who  was  there  out  by  the  road- 
side. His  wife  —  a  bright-eyed  little  woman,  whose  hair 
was  just  getting  a  little  silvery  —  had  a  small  box-cage  in 
which  she  carried  a  large,  intelligent  looking-parrot.  Be- 
fore we  had  gone  very  far,  the  bird  began  to  carry  on  an 
animated  conversation  with  its  mistress,  but  finally  disgusted 
her  and  surprised  us  all  by  swearing  in  French  and  German 
at  the  whole  company,  with  all  the  vehemence  of  a  regiment 
of  troopers.  The  lady  tried  hard  to  stop  him,  but  it  was 
useless.  The  old  gentleman  (like  a  great  many  good 
people  who  would  not  swear  themselves,  but  rather  like  to 
hear  a  good  round  oath  occasionally)  seemed  to  enjoy  it 
intensely,  and  laughed  till  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 
At  noon  the  worthy  pair  made  solemn  preparations  for  a 
dinner.  A  basket,  a  carpet-bag,  and  sundry  paper  parcels 
were  brought  out.  The  lady  spread  a  large  checked  hand-, 
kerchief  over  their  laps  for  a  table  cloth,  and  then  produced 
a  staff 'of  life  about  two  feet  in  .length,  and  cut  off  a  good 
thick  slice  for  each  of  them.  Cheese  was  added  to  it,  and 
also  a  species  of  sausage  about  a  foot  in  length,  and  three 
inches  in  diameter.  From  these  they  made  a  comfortable 
meal —  not  eating  by  stealth,  as  we  Americans  should  have 
done  —  but  diving  in  heartily,  and  chatting  together  all  the 
while  as  cosily  as  if  they  had  been  at  home.  A  bottle  of 
wine  was  then  brought  out  from  the  magic  carpet-bag,  and 
a  glass,  also  a  nice  dessert  of  peaches  and  grapes.  There 
was  a  charming  at-home-ativeness  about  the  whole  proceed- 
ing that  contrasted  strongly  with  our  American  way  of  doing 


PARIS  TO  BOULOGNE.  167 

such  things,  and  all  the  other  passengers  apparently  took  no 
notice  of  it. 

We  arrived  at  Boulogne  in  the  midst  of  a  storm  as  severe 
as  the  morning  had  been  serene.  So  fair  and  foul  a  day  I 
have  not  seen.  An  omnibus  whisked  me  to  a  hotel  in  what 
my  venerable  grandmother  used  to  call  9.  jiffy,  and  I  was  at 
once  independent  of  the  weather's  caprices.  A  comfortable 
dinner  at  the  table  d^hote  repaired  the  damages  of  the  jour- 
ney, and  I  spent  the  evening  with  some  good  friends,  whose 
company  was  made  the  more  delightful  by  the  months  that 
had  separated  us.  The  storm  raged  without,  and  we  chat- 
ted within.  The  old  hotel  creaked  and  sighed  as  the  blast 
assailed  it,  and  I  dreamed  all  night  of  close-reefed  topsails. 

"  'Tis  a  wild  night  out  of  dSors ; 
The  wind  is  mad  upon  the  moors, 
And  comes  into  the  rocking  town, 
Stabbing  all  things  up  and  down : 
And  then  there  is  a  weeping  rain 
Huddling  'gainst  the  window  pane ; 
And  good  men  bless  themselves  in  bed  ; 
The  mother  brings  her  infant's  head 
Closer  with  a  joy  like  tears, 
And  thinks  of  angels  in  her  prayers. 
Then  sleeps  with  his  small  hand  in  hers." 

Having  in  former  years  merely  passed  through  Boulogne, 
I  had  never  known  before  what  a  pleasant  old  city  it  is. 
Its  clean  streets  and  well-built  houses,  and  the  air  of  re- 
spectable antiquity  which  pervades  it,  make  a  very  pleasant 
impression  upon  the  mind.  As  you  stand  on  the  quay,  and 
look  across  at  the  white  cliffs  on  the  other  side  of  the  Chan- 
nel, which  are  distinctly  visible  on  a  clear  day,  the  differ- 
ences in  the  character  of  the  two  nations  so  slightly  separated 
from  one  another,  strike  you  more  forcibly  than  ever.  The 
very  6sh  taken  on  the  French  side  of  the  channel  are  differ- 
ent from  any  that  you  see  in  England ;  and  as  to  the  fl«h- 


168  AGUEGHEEE. 

women,  whose  sunburnt  legs,  bare  to  the  knee,  are  the 
astonishment  of  all  new-comers,  —  go  over  all  Europe,  and 
you  will  find  nothing  like  them.  That  superb  cathedral, 
the  shrine  of  our  Lady  of  Boulogne,  upon  which  the  storm 
of  the  first  French  revolution  beat  with  such  fury,  is  now 
beginning  to  wear  a  look  of  completion.  Its  dome,  one  of 
the  loftiest  and  most  graceful  in  the  world,  is  a  striking  and 
beautiful  feature  in  the  view  of  the  city.  For  more  than 
twelve  centuries  this  has  been  a  famous  shrine.  Kings  and 
princes  have  visited  it,  not  with  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  royalty,  but  in  the  humble  garb  of  the  pilgrim.  Henry 
VIII.  made  a  pilgrimage  hither  in  his  unenlightened  days, 
before  the  pious  Cranmer  had  taught  him  how  wicked  it 
was  to  honour  the  Mother  whom  his  Saviour  honoured,  and 
how  godly  and  just  it  was  to  divorce  and  put  to  death  the 
mothers  of  his  children.  Here  it  was  that  the  heroic  crusa- 
der, Godfrey,  kindled  the  flame  of  that  devotion  which 
nerved  his  arm  against  the  foes  of  Christianity,  and  added  a 
new  lustre  to  his  knightly  fame.  It  is  a  fashion  of  the  pres- 
ent day  to  sneer  at  the  age  of  chivalry  and  the  crusades, 
and  some  of  our  best  writers  have  been  enticed  into  the  fol- 
lowing of  it.  While  we  have  so  many  subjects  deserving 
the  treatment  of  the  satirist,  at  our  very  doors,  —  while  we 
have  the  fashionable  world  to  draw  upon,  —  while  we  can 
look  around  on  political  parsons,  professional  philanthropists 
and  patriots,  politicians  who  talk  of  principle,  and  followers 
who  are  weak  enough  to  believe  in  them — it  would  really 
seem  as  if  we  might  allow  the  crusaders  and  troubadours  to 
rest.  Supposing,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  Christianity  to 
be  a  true  religion,  —  supposing  it  to  be  a  fact  that  eighteen 
hundred  years  ago  the  plains  of  Palestine  were  trodden  by 
the  blessed  feet  that  were  "  nailed  for  our  advantage  on  the 
bitter  cross  " —  the  redemption  of  the  land  which  had  been 
the  scene  of  the  sacred  history,  from  the  sacrilegious  hands 


PARIS  TO   BOULOGNE.  169 

of  the  Saracens,  was  certainly  an  enterprise  creditable  to 
St.  Louis,  and  Richard  the  lion-hearted,  and  Godfrey,  and 
the  other  gentlemen  who  sacrificed  so  much  in  it.  It 
was  certainly  as  respectable  an  undertaking  as  any  of  the 
crusades  of  modern  times,  ^—  as  that  of  the  Spaniards  in 
America,  the  English  in  India,  or  the  United  States  in 
Mexico,  —  with  this  exception,  that  it  was  not  so  profita- 
ble. I  am  afraid  that  some  of  our  modern  satirists  are 
lacking  in  the  spirit  of  their  profession,  and  allow  them- 
selves to  be  made  the  mouthpieces  of  that  worldly  wisdom 
which  it  is  their  office  to  rebuke.  I  can  see  nothing  to 
sneer  at  in  the  crusader  exiling  himself  from  his  native 
land,  and  forfeiting  his  life  in  the  defence  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre ;  indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  respect  a  man  who 
makes  such  a  sacrifice  to  a  conscientious  conviction :  it  is 
a  noble  conquest  of  the  visible  temporal  by  the  unseen  eter- 
nal. I  can  well  understand  how  such  efforts  for  the  protec- 
tion of  a  mere  empty  tomb  would  seem  worthy  of  laughter 
and  ridicule  to  those  who  can  find  no  food  for  satire  in  the 
auri  sacra  fames  which  has  been  the  motive  of  modem  for- 
eign expeditions.  It  would  be  well  for  the  world  could  we 
bring  back  something  of  that  age  of  chivalry  which  Edmund 
Burke  regretted  so  eloquently.  We  need  it  sorely ;  for  we 
are  every  day  sliding  farther  down  from  its  high  standard 
of  honour  and  of  unselfish  devotion  to  principle. 

There  is  a  little  fishing  village  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  Boulogne,  on  the  sea  coast  towards  Calais,  which  is 
celebrated  in  history  as  having  been  the  scene  of  the  land- 
ing of  Prince  Louis  Napoleon  and  his  companions  in  their 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  overthrow  the  government  of  Louis 
Philippe.  Napoleon  III.  has  not  distinguished  the  spot 
by  any  memorial ;  but  he  has  erected  a  colossal  statue  of 
Napoleon  I.  on  the  spot  where  that  insatiable  conqueror, 
with  his  mighty  army  around  him,  looked  longingly  at  th« 
16 


170  AQUECHBBK. 

ooast  of  England.  There  is  something  of  a  contrast  be- 
tween the  day  thus  commemorated  and  that  on  which  the 
"  nephew  of  his  uncle  "  received  Queen  Victoria  at  Boulogne, 
when  she  visited  France.  It  must  have  been  a  great  satis- 
faction to  Louis  Napoleon,  after  his  life  of  exile,  and  par- 
ticularly after  the  studied  neglect  which  he  experienced 
from  the  English  nobility,  to  have  welcomed  the  British 
Queen  to  his  realm  with  that  kiss  which  is  the  token  of 
equality  among  sovereigns.  Waterloo  must  have  been  blot- 
ted out  when  he  saw  the  Queen  —  in  whose  realm  he  had 
served  the  cause  of  good  order  in  the  rank  of  special  con- 
stable —  bending  down  at  his  knee  to  confer  upon  him  the 
order  of  the  garter. 

In  spite  of  its  geographical  situation,  Boulogne  can  hardly 
be  considered  a  French  town.  The  police  department  and 
the  custom  house  are  in  the  hands  of  the  French,  to  be 
sure ;  but  in  the  course  of  a  walk  through  its  streets,  you 
hear  much  more  of  the  English  than  of  the  French  lan- 
guage. You  meet  those  brown  shooting  jackets,  and  checked 
trousers,  and  thick  shoes  and  gaiters  that  are  at  home  every 
where  in  the  "  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free."  You 
cannot  turn  a  corner  without  coming  upon  some  of  those 
beefy  and  beery  countenances  which  symbolize  so  perfectly 
the  genius  of  British  civilization,  and  hearing  the  letter  H 
exasperated  to  a  wonderful  degree.  Every  where  you  see 
bevies  of  young  ladies  wearing  those  peculiar  brown  straw 
hats,  edged  with  black  lace,  with  a  brown  feather  put  in 
horizontally  on  one  side  of  the  crown,  a  style  of  head  dress 
to  which  the  French  and  Italians  have  given  the  name  of 
" Ingleesh  spoken  here"  There  is  a  large  class  among  the 
English  population  of  Boulogne  upon  which  the  disinterested 
spectator  will  look  with  interest  and  with  pity.  I  mean 
those  unfortunate  persons  who  have  been  obliged  by  "  force 
of  oirQvuB5t94ices  "  and  the  importunity  of  creditors  to  exile 


PARlS  TO   BOULOGNE.  ^tW. 

themselves  for  a  time  from  their  native  land.  You  see  them 
on  every  side;  and  all  ranks  in  society  are  represented 
among  them,  from  the  distinguished-looking  man,  with  the 
tortoise-shell  spectacles,  who  ran  through  his  wife's  property 
at  the  club,  to  the  pale,  unhappy-looking  fellow  in  the  loose 
thread  gloves  and  sleepless  coat.  You  can  distinguish  them 
at  a  glance  from  their  fellow-countrymen  who  have  gone 
over  for  purposes  of  recreation,  the  poor  devils  walk  about 
with  such  an  evident  wish  to  appear  to  be  doing  something 
or  going  somewhere.  The  condition  of  the  prisoners,  or 
rather  the  "  collegians,"  in  the  old  Marshalsea  prison,  must 
have  been  an  enviable  one,  compared  to  these  unfortunates, 
condemned  to  gaze  at  the  cliffs  of  Old  England  from  a  dis- 
tance, and  wait  vainly  for  something  to  turn  up. 

The  arrival  and  departure  of  the  English  steamers  is 
the  only  source  of  excitement  that  the  quiet  city  of  Bou- 
logne possesses.  I  was  astonished  to  find,  after  being 
there  a  day  or  two,  what  an  interest  I  took  in  those  occur- 
rences. I  found  myself  on  the  quay  with  the  rest  of  the 
foreign  population  of  the  town,  .an  hour  before  the  depart- 
ure of  the  boat,  to  make  sure,  like  every  body  else  there, 
that  not  a  traveller  for  England  should  escape  my  notice. 
Besides,  the  pleasure  of  inspecting  the  motley  crowd  of  spec- 
tators, I  was  gratified  one  day  to  see  the  big,  manly  form 
and  good-natured,  ugly  face  of  Thackeray,  following  a 
leathern  portmanteau  on  its  path  from  the  omnibus  to  thd 
boat.  The  great  satirist  took  an  observation  of  the  crowd 
through  his  spectacles  as  if  he  were  making  a  mental  note, 
to  be  overhauled  in  due  season,  and  then  hurried  on  board, 
as  if  he  longed  to  get  back  to  London  among  his  books. 
He  had  been  spending  the  warm  season  at  the  baths  of 
Hombourg.  But  the  great  excitement  of  the  day  is  the 
arrival  of  the  afternoon  boat  from  Folkstone.  It  is  better 
Ai  an  Amusement  than  many  plays  that  I  have  seen,  and  it 


172  AQUECHEEK. 

has  this  advantage,  (an  indispensable  one  to  a  large  part  of 
the  English  population  of  Boulogne,)  that  it  costs  nothing. 
During  the  days  when  I  was  there,  the  equinoctial  gale 
was  in  full  blow,  and,  of  course,  there  was  a  greater  rush 
than  usual  to  the  quay.  It  was  necessary  to  go  very  early 
to  secure  a  good  place.  From  the  steamer  to  the  passport 
oflSce,  a  distance  of  two  or  three  hundred  feet,  ropes  were 
stretched  to  keep  back  the  spectators,  forming  an  avenue 
some  thirty  feet  wide.  Through  this  the  wretched  victims 
of  the  "  chop  sea  "  of  the  Channel  were  obliged  to  pass,  and 
listen  to  the  remarks  or  laughter  which  their  pitiable  condi- 
tion excited  among  the  crowd  of  their  disinterested  country- 
men. Any  person  who  has  ever  been  seasick  can  imagine 
what  it  would  be  to  go  on  shore  from  a  boat  that  has  just 
been  pitching  and  rolling  about  in  the  most  absurd  manner, 
and  try  to  walk  like  a  Christian,  with  the  eyes  of  several 
hundred  amusement-seeking  people  fixed  upon  him.  Sym- 
pathy is  entirely  out  of  the  question.  The  pallid  counte- 
nance and  uncertain  step,  as  if  the  walker  were  waiting  for 
the  pavement  to  rise  to  meet  his  foot,  excite  nothing  but 
mirth  in  the  spectators.  The  whole  scene,  including  the 
lookers-on,  was  one  of  the  funniest  things  I  ever  saw.  The 
observations  of  the  crowd,  too,  were  well  calculated  to 
heighten  the  effect.  "  Ease  her  when  she  pitches,"  cried 
out  a  youngster  at  my  side,  as  an  old  lady,  who  was  sup- 
ported by  a  gentleman  and  a  maid  servant,  seemed  to  be  try- 
ing to  accommodate  herself  to  the  motion  of  the  street,  and 
testify  her  love  for  terra  jirma  by  lying  down.  "  Hard  a' 
starboard,"  shouted  another,  as  a  gentleman,  with  a  felt  hat 
close  reefed  to  his  head  with  a  white  handkerchief,  sidled 
along  up  the  leeward  side  of  the  passage  way.  "  That  'ere 
must  'a  been  a  sewere  case  of  sickness,"  said  a  little  old 
man,  in  an  advanced  state  of  seediness,  as  a  tall  man,  look- 
ing defiance  at  the  crowd,  walked  ashore  with  a  carpet-bag 


PABI8  TO  BOULOGNE.  178 

in  his  hand,  and  an  expression  on  his  face  very  like  that  of 
Mr.  "Warren,  in  the  farce,  when  he  says,  "  Shall  I  slay  him 
at  once,  or  shall  I  wait  till  the  cool  of  the  evening  ?  "  «  Don't 
go  yet,  Mary,"  said  a  young  gentleman  in  a  jacket  and  pre- 
cocious hat,  to  his  sister,  who  seemed  to  fear  that  it  was 
about  to  begin  to  rain  again,  —  "  don't  go  yet ;  the  best  of  all 
is  to  come ;  there's  a  fat  lady  on  board  who  has  been  so 
sick  —  we  must  wait  to  see  her  ! "  And  so  they  went  on, 
carrying  out  in  the  most  exemplary  manner  that  golden 
rule  which,  applied  to  the  period  of  seasickness,  enjoins 
upon  us  that  we  shall  do  unto  others  just  as  others  would  do 
to  ns. 

It  is  no  joke  to  most  people  to  cross  the  Channel  at  any 
titoe,  but  to  cross  it  on  the  tail-end  of  the  equinoctial  storm 
is  far  from  being  a  humourous  matter.  I  had  crossed  from 
almost  all  the  ports  between  Havre  and  Rotterdam  in 
former  years  ;  so  I  resolved  to  try  a  new  route  in  spite  of 
the  weather,  and  booked  myself  for  a  passage  in  the  boat 
from  Boulogne  to  London,  direct.  The  steamer  was  called 
the  Seine ;  and  when  we  had  once  got  into  the  open  sea,  a 
large  part  of  the  passengers  seemed  to  think  that  they  wer6 
insane  to  have  come  in  her.  She  was  a  very  good  sea-boat, 
but  I  could  not  help  contrasting  her  with  our  Sound  and 
Hudson  River  steamers  at  home.  If  the  "  General  Steam 
Navigation  Company"  were  to  import  a  steamer  from 
America  like  the  Metropolis  or  the  Isaac  Newton,  there  would 
be  a  revolution  in  the  travelling  world  of  England.  The 
people  here  would  no  longer  put  up  with  steamers  without 
an  awning  or  any  shelter  from  sun  or  rain.  After  they  had 
enjoyed  the  accommodations  of  one  of  our  great  floating 
hotels,  they  would  not  think  of  shutting  themselves  up  in  the 
miserable  cabins  which  people  pay  so  dearly  for  here.  But 
to  proceed  :  when  w6  got  fairly  out  upon  the  nasty  deep,  1 
ventured  to  gratify  my  curiosity,  as  a  connoisseur  in  sea* 
15* 


174  AGUECHEEK. 

sickness,  by  a  visit  to  the  cabin.  If  I  were  in  the  habit  of 
writing  for  the  newspapers,  I  suppose  I  should  say  that  the 
scene  "  baffled  description."  It  certainly  was  one  that  I  shall 
not  soon  forget.  The  most  rabid  republican  would  have  been 
satisfied  with  the  equality  that  prevailed  there.  The  squalls 
that  assailed  us  on  deck  were  nothing  compared  to  the 
demonstrations  of  a  whole  regiment  of  infantry  below,  who 
were  illustrating,  in  a  manner  worthy  of  Retsch,  one  of  the 
first  lines  in  Shakespeare's  Seven  Ages.  Ladies  of  all 
ages  were  keeled  up  on  every  side  in  various  postures  of 
picturesque  negligence,  and  with  a  forgetfulness  of  the  con- 
ventionalities of  society  quite  charming  to  look  upon.  The 
floor,  where  it  was  unoccupied  by  prostrate  humanity,  was 
nearly  covered  with  hat-boxes,  and  bonnets,  and  bowls,  and 
anonymous  articles  of  crockery  ware,  which  were  perform- 
ing a  lively  quadrille,  being  assisted  therein  by  the  motion 
of  the  ship.  But  a  little  of  such  sights,  and  sounds,  and 
smells  as  these  goes  a  great  way  with  me,  and  I  was  glad  to 
return  to  the  wet  deck.  They  had  managed  to  rig  a  tar- 
paulin between  the  paddle-boxes,  and  there  I  took  refuge 
until  the  rain  ceased.  It  was  comparatively  pleasant 
weather  when  we  sailed  past  Walmer  Castle,  where  that  old 
hero  died  on  whom  all  the  world  has  conferred  the  title  of 
"  The  Duke ; "  and  of  course  there  was  no  rough  sea  as 
soon  as  we  got  into  the  Downs.  Black-eyed  Susan  might 
have  gone  on  board  of  any  of  the  fleet  of  vessels  that  were 
lying  there  without  discolouring  her  ribbons  by  a  single 
dash  of  spray.  Ramsgate  and  Margate  (the  Newport  and 
Cape  May  of  England)  looked  full  of  company  as  we  sailed 
by  them,  and  crowds  of  bathers  were  battling  with  the  surf. 
The  heavy  black  yards  of  the  ships  of  war  loomed  up  at 
Sheerness  in  the  distance,  and  suggested  thoughts  of  Nelson, 
and  Dibdin,  and  Ben  Bowlin.  Now  and  then  we  passed  by 
some  splendid  American  clipper  ship  towing  up  or  down 


PARIS   TO   BOULOGNE.  176 

the  river,  and  I  felt  proud  of  my  nationality  as  I  contrasted 
her  graceful  lines  and  majestic  proportions  with  the  tub-like 
models  of  British  origin  that  every  where  met  my  eye.  The 
dock-yards  of  Woolwich  seemed  like  a  vast  ant-hill  for 
numbers  and  busy  life.  Greenwich,  with  its  fine  architec- 
ture and  fresh  foliage  in  the  distance,  was  most  grateful  to 
my  eyes ;  and  it  was  pleasing  to  reflect,  as  I  passed  the  ob- 
servatory, that  I  could  begin  to  reckon  my  longitude  to  the 
westward,  for  it  made  me  feel  nearer  home. 


LONDON. 

No  man  can  really  appreciate  the  grandeur  of  London 
until  he  has  approached  it  from  the  sea.  The  sail  up  the 
river  from  Gravesend  to  London  Bridge  is  a  succession  of 
wonders,  each  one  more  overwhelming  than  that  which 
preceded  it.  There  is  no  display  of  fortifications ;  but  here 
and  there  you  see  some  storm-tossed  old  hulk,  which,  hav- 
ing finished  its  active  career,  has  been  safely  anchored  in 
that  repose  which  powder  magazines  always  enjoy.  As 
the  river  grows  narrower,  the  number  of  ships,  steamers^ 
coal  barges,  wherries,  and  boats  of  every  description,  seems 
to  increase ;  and  as  you  sail  on,  the  grand  panorama  of  the 
world-wide  commerce  of  this  great  metropolis  unfolds  be- 
fore you,  and  you  are  lost,  not  so  much  in  admiration  as  in 
astonishment  Woolwich,  Greenwich,  Rotherhithe,  Ber- 
mondsey,  Blackwall,  Millwall,  Wapping,  &c.,  follow  rapidly 
in  the  vision,  like  the  phantom  kings  before  the  eyes  of  the 
unfortunate  Scotch  usurper,  until  one  is  tempted  to  inquire 
with  him,  whether  the  "  line  will  stretch  out  to  the  crack 
of  doom."  The  buildings  grow  thicker  and  more  unsightly 
as  you  advance ;  the  black  sides  of  the  enormous  ware- 
houses seem  to  be  bulging  out  over  the  edge  of  the  wharves 
on  which  they  stand ;  far  off,  beyond  the  reach  of  the  tides, 
you  see  the  forests  of  masts  that  indicate  the  site  of  the 
docks.  The  bright  green  water  of  the  Channel  has  been 
exchanged  for  the  filthy,  drain-like  current  of  the  Thames. 
Hundreds  of  monstrous  chimneys  belch  forth  the  smoke 
that  constitutes  the  legitimate  atmosphere  of  London. 
Every  thing  seems  to  be  dressed  in  the  deepest  mourning 

(176) 


LONDON.  177 

for  the  cruel  fate  of  nature,  and  you  look  at  the  distant 
hills  and  bright  lawns,  over  in  the  direction  of  Sydenham, 
with  very  much  of  the  feeling  that  Dives  must  have  had, 
when  he  gazed  on  the  happiness  of  Lazarus  from  his  place 
of  torment.  Every  thing  presents  a  most  striking  contrast 
to  the  clean,  fair  cities  of  the  continent.  Paris,  with  its 
cream-colored  palaces  adorning  the  banks  of  the  Seine, 
seems  more  beautiful  than  ever  as  you  recall  it  while  sur- 
rounded by  such  sights,  and  sounds,  and  smells,  as  offend 
your  senses  here.  The  winding  Amo,  and  the  towers,  and 
domes,  and  bridges,  of  Florence  and  Pisa,  seem  to  belong 
to  a  celestial  vision  rather  than  to  an  earthly  reality,  as  you 
contrast  them  with  the  monuments  of  England's  commer- 
cial greatness.  At  last,  you  come  in  sight  of  London 
Bridge,  with  its  never-ceasing  current  of  vehicles  and  hu- 
man beings  crossing  it ;  and  your  amazement  is  crowned  by 
realizing  that,  notwithstanding  the  wonders  you  have  seen, 
you  have  just  reached  the  edge  of  the  city,  and  that  you 
can  ride  for  miles  and  miles  through  a  closely-built  lab- 
yrinth of  bricks  and  mortar,  hidden  under  the  veil  of 
smoke  before  you. 

And  what  a  change  it  is  —  from  Paris  to  London  !  To 
a  Frenchman  it  must  be  productive  of  a  suicidal  feeling. 
The  scene  has  shifted  from  the  sunny  Boulevards  to  the 
blackened  bricks  and  mortar,  which  neither  great  Neptune's 
ocean,  nor  Lord  Palmerston's  anti-smoke  enactment  can 
wash  clean.  Li  the  place  of  the  smiling,  good-humoured 
Frenchman,  you  have  the  serious,  stately  Englishman. 
One  misses  the  winning  courtesy  of  which  a  Frenchman's 
hat '  is  the  instrument,  and  the  ready  pardon  or  merci  are 
beard  no  more.  The  beggary,  the  drunkenness,  and  the 
depravity,  so  apparent  on  every  side,  appall  one.  Paris 
may  be  the  most  immoral  city  in  the  world ;  but  there,  vice 
must  be  sought  for  in  its  own  haunts.     Here  in  London,  it 


178  AOUECHEEK. 

prowls  up  and  down  in  the  streets,  seeking  for  its  victims. 
Put  all  the  other  European  capitals  together,  and  I  do  not 
believe  that  you  could  meet  with  so  much  to  pain  and  dis- 
gust you  as  you  would  in  one  hour  in  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don. And  yet,  with  all  this  staring  people  in  the  face  here, 
how  do  they  go  to  work  to  remedy  it  ?  They  pass  laws 
enforcing  the  suspension  of  business  on  Sundays,  and  when 
they  succeed  in  keeping  all  the  shutters  closed,  by  fear  of 
the  law,  they  fold  their  arms,  and  say,  "  See  what  a  godly 
nation  is  this !  "  If  this  is  not  "  making  clean  the  outside 
of  the  cup  and  platter,"  what  is  it  ?  For  my  part,  I  much 
prefer  that  perfect  religious  liberty  which  allows  each  man 
to  keep  Sunday  as  he  pleases ;  and  the  recent  improvement 
in  the  observance  of  the  day  in  France  is  all  the  more 
gratifying,  because  it  does  not  spring  from  any  compulsory 
motive.  Let  the  Jews  keep  the  Sabbath  as  they  are  com- 
manded to  in  the  Old  Testament ;  but  Sunday  is  the  Chris- 
tian's day,  and  Sunday  is  a  day  of  festivity  and  rejoicing, 
and  not  of  fasting  and  penitential  sadness. 

Despite  the  smoke,  and  the  lack  of  continental  courtesy 
which  is  felt  on  arriving  from  France,  despite  the  din  and 
hurry,  I  cannot  help  loving  London.  The  very  names 
of  the  streets  have  been  made  classical  by  writers  whose 
works  are  a  part  of  our  own  intellectual  being.  The  illus- 
trious and  venerable  names  of  Barclay  and  Perkins,  of 
Truman,  Hanbury,  and  Buxton,  that  meet  our  eyes  at 
every  comer,  are  the  synonymes  of  English  hospitality  and 
cheer.  It  is  a  pleasure,  too,  to  hear  one's  native  language 
spoken  on  all  sides,  after  so  many  months  of  French  twang. 
The  hissing  and  sputtering  English  seems  under  such  cir- 
cumstances to  be  more  musical  than  the  most  elegant 
phrases  of  the  Tuscan  in  the  mouth  of  a  dignified  Roman. 
Even  the  omnibus  conductors'  talk  about  the  "  Habbey,** 
the  "  Benk,"  'Igh  'Olborn,  &c.,  does  not  offend  the  ear,  so 


LONDON.  179 

delightful  does  it  seem  to  be  able  to  say  beefsteak  instead 
of  biftek.  The  odour  of  brown  stout  that  prevails  every 
where  is  as  fragrant  as  the  first  sniiF  of  the  land  breeze 
after  a  long  voyage.  Temple  Bar  is  eloquent  of  the  genius 
of  Hogarth,  whose  deathless  drawings  first  made  its  ugly 
form  familiar  to  your  youthful  eyes  in  other  lands.  The 
very  stones  of  Fleet  Street  prate  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  Gold- 
smith. You  walk  into  Bolt  Court,  and  if  you  feel  as  I  do 
the  associations  of  the  place,  you  eat  a  chop  in  the  tavern 
that  stands  where  stood  the  house  of  Dr.  Johnson.  Then 
you  cross  over  the  way  to  Inner  Temple  Lane,  and  mourn 
over  the  march  of  improvement  when  you  see  that  its  sacri- 
legious hand  is  sweeping  away  a  row  of  four  brick  houses, 
which,  dilapidated  and  unsightly  as  they  may  appear,  are 
dear  to  every  lover  of  English  literature.  In  No.  1,  for- 
merly dwelt  Dr.  Johnson  ;  in  No.  4,  Charles  Lamb.  You 
walk  into  the  Temple  Church,  and  muse  over  the  efiigies 
of  the  knights  who  repose  there  in  marble  or  bronze,  or  go 
into  the  quiet  Temple  Gardens,  and  meditate  on  the  wars 
of  the  red  and  white  roses  that  were  plucked  there  cen- 
turies ago,  before. the  iron  fences  were  built.  It  would 
be  as  difl&cult  to  pluck  any  roses  there  now  as  the  most 
zealous  member  of  the  Peace  Society  could  wish.  You 
climb  up  Ludgate  Hill,  getting  finely  spattered  by  the  cabs 
and  omnibuses,  and  find  yourself  at  St.  Paul's.  You 
smile  when  you  think  that  that  black  pile  of  architecture, 
with  its  twopenny  fee  of  admission,  was  intended  to  rival 
St.  Peter's,  and  your  smile  becomes  audible  when  you 
enter  it,  and  see  that  while  the  images  of  the  Saviour  and 
the  Saints  may  not  be  "  had  and  retained,"  the  statues  of 
admirals  and  generals  are  considered  perfectly  in  place 
there.  You  walk  out  with  the  conviction  that  consistency 
is  a  jewel,  and  tread  a  pavement  that  is  classical  to  every 
lover  of  books.     Paternoster  Bow  receives  you,  and  you 


180  AGUECHEEE. 

slowly  saunter  through  it.  Nobody  walks  rapidly  through 
Paternoster  Row.  Situated  midway  between  the  bustle  and 
turmoil  of  Ludgate  Hill  and  Cheapside,  it  is  a  kind  of  resting- 
place  for  pedestrians.  They  breathe  the  more  quiet  air  of 
bookland  there,  and  the  windows  are  a  temptation  which 
few  loiterers  can  withstand. 

The  old  church  of  St.  Mary  le  Bow  reminds  you  that 
you  are  at  the  very  centre  of  Cockneydom,  as  you  walk 
on  towards  the  Bank  and  the  Exchange.  Crossing  the 
sti*eet  at  the  risk  of  your  life  through  a  maze  of  snorting 
horses  and  rattling  wheels,  you  get  into  Cornhill.  Here 
the  faces  that  you  see  ai-e  a  proof  that  the  anxious,  money- 
getting  look  is  not  confined  to  the  worshippers  of  the 
almighty  dollar.  You  push  on  until  you  reach  Eastcheap. 
How  great  is  your  disappointment !  The  very  name  has 
called  up  all  your  recollections  of  the  wild  young  prince  and 
his  fat  friend  —  but  nothing  that  you  see  there  serves  to 
heighten  your  Shakespearean  enthusiasm.  C!oal-heavers 
and  draymen  make  the  air  vocal  with  their  oaths  and  slang, 
which  once  resounded  with  the  laughter  of  Jack  Falstaflf 
and  his  jolly  companions.  No  Mistress  Quickly  stands  in 
the  doorway  of  any  of  the  numerous  taverns.  The  whole 
scene  is  a  great  falling-off  from  what  you  had  imagined  of 
Eastcheap.  The  sanded  floors,  the  snowy  window  curtains, 
the  bright  pewter  pots,  have  given  way  to  dirt  and  general 
frowsiness.  You  read  on  a  card  in  a  window  that  within 
you  can  obtain  "  a  go  of  brandy  for  sixpence,  and  a  go  of 
gin  for  fourpence,"  and  that  settles  all  your  Falstaffian  as- 
sociations. You  stop  to  look  at  an  old  brick  house  which  is 
being  pulled  down,  for  you  think  that  perhaps  its  heavy 
timbered  ceiling-s,  and  low  windows,  and  Guy  Fawkesy  en- 
tries date  back  to  Shakespeare's  times  ;  but  you  are  too  much 
incommoded  by  the  dust  from  its  crumbling  walls  to  stop 
long,  and  you  leave  the  place  carrying  with  you  the  only 


LONDON.  181 

reminder  of  Falstaflf  you  have  seen  there  —  you  leave  with 
lime  in  your  sack  ! 

I  know  of  nothing  better  calculated  to  take  down  a  man's 
self-esteem  than  a  walk  through  the  streets  of  London.  To 
a  man  who  has  always  lived  in  a  small  town,  where  every 
second  person  he  meets  is  an  acquaintance,  a  walk  from 
Hyde  Park  corner  to  London  Bridge  must  be  a  crusher. 
If  that  does  not  convince  him  that  he  is  really  of  very  little 
importance  in  the  world,  he  is  past  cure.  The  whirl  of 
vehicles,  the  throngs  upon  the  sidewalks,  seem  to  overwhelm 
and  blot  out  our  own  individuality.  Xerxes  cried  when  he 
gazed  upon  his  assembled  forces,  and  reflected  that  out  of 
all  that  vast  multitude  not  one  person  would  be  alive  in  a 
hundred  years.  Xerxes  ought  to  have  ridden  through  Ox- 
ford Street  or  the  Strand  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus.  Spital- 
fields  and  Bandanna  (two  places  concerning  the  geography 
of  which  I  am  rather  in  the  dark)  could  not  have  furnished 
him  with  handkerchiefs  to  dry  his  eyes. 

I  was  never  so  struck  with  the  lack  of  architectural 
beauty  in  London  as  I  have  been  during  this  visit.  There 
are,  it  is  true,  a  few  fine  buildings  —  Westminster  Abbey, 
St.  Paul's,  Somerset  House,  &c. ;  but  they  are  all  as 
black  as  my  hat,  with  this  soot  in  which  all  London  is 
clothed ;  so  there  is  really  very  little  beauty  about  them. 
The  new  Houses  of  Parliament  are  a  fine  pile  of  buildings, 
certainly,  and  the  lately  finished  towers  are  a  pleasing  fea- 
ture in  the  view  from  the  bridges ;  but  they  are  altogether 
too  gingerbready  to  wear  well.  They  lack  boldness  of  light 
and  shade ;  and  this  lack  is  making  itself  more  apparent 
every  day  as  the  smoke  of  the  city  is  enveloping  them  in 
its  everlasting  shade.  Buckingham  Palace  looks  like  a 
second  rate  American  hotel,  and  as  to  St.  James,  the  bar- 
racks at  West  Point  are  far  more  palatial  than  that.  It  is 
not  architecture,  however,  that  we  look  for  in  London.  It 
16 


182  AOUECHBEK. 

has  a  charm  in  spite  of  all  its  deformities,  —  in  spite  of  its 
climate,  which  is  such  an  encounigement  to  the  umbrella 
makers  —  in  spite  of  its  smoky  atmosphere,  through  which 
the  sun  looks  like  a  great  copper  ball  —  in  spite  of  its  mud, 
which  the  water-carts  insure  when  the  dark  skies  fail  in  the 
discharge  of  their  daily  dues  to  the  metropolis.  London, 
with  all  thy  fogs,  I  love  thee  still !  It  is  this  great  agglom- 
eration of  towns  which  we  call  London  —  this  great  human 
family  of  more  than  two  millions  and  a  half  of  beings  that 
awakens  our  sympathy.  It  is  the  fact  that  through  England 
we  Americans  trace  our  relationship  to  the  ages  that  are 
past.  It  is  the  fact  that  we  are  here  surrounded  by  the 
honoured  tombs  of  heroes  and  wise  men,  whose  very  names 
have  become,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  our  own  being.  These 
are  the  things  that  bind  us  to  London,  and  which  make  the 
aureola  of  light  that  hangs  over  it  at  night  time  seem  a 
crown  of  glory. 

But  we  must  not  forget  that  there  is  a  dark  side  to  the 
picture.  There  is  a  serious  drawback  to  all  our  enthusiasm. 
Poverty  and  vice  beset  us  at  every  step.  Beggary  more 
abject  than  all  the  world  besides  can  show  appeals  to  us  at 
every  crossing.  The  pale  hollow  cheek  and  sunken  eye 
tell  such  a  story  of  want  as  no  language  can  express.  The 
mother,  standing  in  a  doorway  with  her  two  hungry-looking 
children,  and  imploring  the  passers-by  to  purchase  some  of 
the  netting  work  her  hands  have  executed,  is  a  sight 
that  touches  your  heart.  But  walk  into  some  of  those 
lanes  and  alleys  which  abound  almost  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Houses  of  Parliament  and  the  royal  residence,  —  slums 
"  whose  atmosphere  is  typhus,  and  whose  ventilation  is  chol- 
era,"—  and  the  sentiment  of  pity  is  lost  in  one  of  fear. 
There  you  see  on  every  side  that  despair  and  recklessness 
which  spring  from  want  and  neglect.  Walk  through  Re- 
gent Street,  and  the  Haymarket,  and  the  Strand  in  the  even- 


LONDON.  1$S 

iiig,  and  you  shall  be  astonished  at  the  gay  dresses  and 
painted  cheeks  that  surround  you.  The  rummy  atmosphere 
reechoes  with  profanity  from  female  lips.  From  time  to 
time  you  are  obliged  to  shake  off  the  vice  and  crinoline  that 
seek  to  be  companions  of  your  walk. 

There  is  a  distinguished  prize-fighter  here  —  one  Benja- 
min Caunt.  He  keeps  a  gin  shop  in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  and 
rejoices  in  a  profitable  business  and  the  title  of  the  "  Cham- 
pion of  England."  He  transacted  a  little  business  in  the 
prize-fighting  line  over  on  the  Surrey  side  of  the  river  a  few 
days  ago,  and  is  to  sustain  the  honour  of  England  against 
another  antagonist  to-morrow.  During  the  entire  week  his 
gin  shop  has  been  surrounded  by  admiring  crowds,  anxious 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  hero.  And  such  crowds  !  It 
would  be  wronging  the  lowest  of  the  race  of  quadrupeds  to 
call  those  people  beastly  and  brutal  wretches.  Most  Ameri- 
oaSiS  think  that  the  Bowery  and  Five  Points  can  rival 
almost  any  thing  in  the  world  for  displays  of  all  that  is  dis- 
gusting in  society ;  but  London  leaves  us  far  behind.  I 
stopped  several  times  to  note  the  character  of  Mr.  Caunt's 
constituents.  There  were  men  there  with  flashy  cravats 
around  necks  that  reminded  me  of  Mr.  Buckminster's  Devon 
cattle  —  their  hair  cropped  close  for  obvious  reasons  — 
moving  about  among  the  crowd,  filling  the  air  with  damns 
and  brandy  fumes.  There  were  others  in  a  more  advanced 
stage  of  "  fancy  "  existence  —  men  with  all  the  humanity 
blotted  out  of  them,  not  a  spark  of  intellect  left  in  their 
beery  countenances.  There  were  women  drabbled  with 
dirt,  soggy  with  liquor,  with  eyes  artificially  black.  There 
were  children  pale  and  stunted  from  the  use  of  gin,  or 
bloated  with  beer,  assuming  the  swagger  of  the  blackguards 
around  them,  and  looking  as  old  and  depraved  as  any  of 
them.  It  seemed  as  if  hell  were  empty  and  all  the  devils 
were  there.    The  police  —  those  guardians  of  the  public 


184  AGUECHEEK. 

weal,  who  are  so  efficient  when  a  poor  woman  is  trying  to 
earn  her  bread  by  selling  a  few  apples  —  so  prompt  to  make 
the  well-intentioned  "move  on"  —  did  not  appear  to  inter- 
fere. They  evidently  considered  the  street  to  be  blockaded 
for  a  just  cause,  and  looked  as  if,  in  aiding  people  to  get  a 
look  at  the  Champion  of  England,  they  were  sustaining  the 
honour  of  England  herself. 

And  this  is  the  same  England  that  assumes  to  teach  other 
nations  the  science  of  benevolence.  This  is  the  same  Eng- 
land that  laments  over  the  tyranny  of  continental  govern- 
ments, and  boasts  of  how  many  millions  of  Bibles  it  has 
sent  to  people  who  could  not  read  them  if  they  would,  and 
would  not  if  they  could.  This  is  the  same  England  that 
turns  up  the  whites  of  its  eyes  at  American  slavery,  and 
wishes  to  teach  the  King  of  Naples  how  to  govern.  Why, 
you  can  spend  months  in  going  about  the  worst  quarters  of 
the  continental  cities,  and  not  see  so  much  of  vice  and  pov- 
erty as  you  can  in  the  great  thoroughfares  of  London  in  a 
single  day.  There  is  vice  enough  in  every  large  city,  as  we 
all  know ;  but  in  most  of  them  it  has  to  be  sought  for  by 
its  votaries  —  in  London  it  goes  about  seeking  whom  it  may 
devour.  The  press  of  England  may  try  to  advance  the 
interests  of  a  prime  minister  anxious  to  get  possession  of 
Sicily  by  slandering  Ferdinand  of  Naples ;  but  every  body 
knows,  who  has  visited  that  fair  kingdom,  that  there  are  few 
monarchs  more  public  spirited  and  popular  with  all  classes 
of  their  subjects  than  he.  Every  body  knows  that  there  is 
no  class  in  that  community  corresponding  to  the  prize- 
fighting class  in  London  —  that  the  horrors  of  the  mining 
districts  are  unknown  there,  and  that  an  English  work- 
house would  make  even  an  Englishman  blush  when  com- 
pared with  those  magnificent  institutions  that  relieve  the 
poor  of  Italy.  I  had  rather  be  sold  at  auction  in  Alabama 
any  day  than  to  take  my  chance  as  a  denizen  of  the  slums 


LONDON.  185 

of  London,  or  as  a  worker  in  the  coal  mines.  I  have  no 
patience  with  this  telescopic  philanthropy  of  the  English, 
while  there  are  abases  all  around  them  so  much  greater 
than  those  that  disgrace  any  other  civilized  country.  What 
can  be  more  disgusting  than  this  pharisaical  cant  —  this 
thanking  Grod  that  they  are  not  as  others  are  —  extortioners 
and  slaveholders  —  when  you  look  at  the  real  condition  of 
things  ?  Englishmen  always  boast  that  their  country  has 
escaped  the  revolutionary  storm  which  has  so  many  times 
swept  over  Europe  during  this  century,  and  would  try  to 
persuade  people  that  there  is  little  or  no  discontent  here. 
The  fact  is,  the  lower  classes  in  this  country  have  been  so 
ground  down  by  the  money  power  and  the  force  of  the  gov- 
ernment, and  are  so  ignorant  and  vicious,  that  they  cannot 
be  organized  into  a  revolutionary  force.  "Walk  through 
Whitechapel,  and  observe  the  people  there  —  contrast  them 
with  the  blouses  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine  —  and  you  will 
acknowledge  the  truth  of  this.  The  people  in  the  manu- 
facturing districts  in  France  are,  indeed,  far  from  being 
models  of  morality  or  of  intellectual  culture ;  but  they 
have  retained  enough  of  the  powers  of  humanity  to  make 
them  very  dangerous,  when  collected  under  the  leadership 
of  demagogues  of  the  school  of  Ledrn  Rollin.  But  the 
&rming  districts  of  France  have  remained  comparatively 
fi:ee  from  the  infection  of  socialism  and  infidelity.  The 
late  Henry  Colman,  in  his  agricultural  tour,  found  villages 
where  almost  the  entire  population  went  to  mass  every 
morning,  before  commencing  the  labour  of  the  day.  But 
the  degradation  of  the  labouring  classes  of  England  is  not 
confined  to  the  manufacturing  towns ;  the  peasantry  is  in  a 
most  demoralized  condition :  the  Chartist  leaders  found 
neai'ly  as  great  a  proportion  of  adherents  among  the  farm 
labourers  as  among  the  distressed  operatives  of  Birmingham 
and  Sheffield ;  and  Mormonism  counts  its  victims  among 
16* 


186  AGUECHEEK. 

both  of  those  neglected  classes  by  thousands.  It  is,  per- 
haps, all  very  well  for  ambitious  orators  to  make  the  House 
of  Commons  or  Exeter  Hall  resound  with  their  denuncia- 
tions of  French  usurpations,  Austrian  tyranny,  Neapolitan 
dungeons,  Russian  serfdom,  and  American  slavery ;  but 
thinking  men,  when  they  note  these  enthusiastic  demonstra- 
tions of  philanthropy,  caiinot  help  thinking  of  England's 
workhouses,  the  brutalized  workers  in  her  coal  mines  and 
factories,  and  her  oppressive  and  cruel  rule  in  Ireland  and 
in  India ;  and  it  strikes  them  as  strange  that  a  country, 
whose  eyesight  is  obstructed  by  a  beam  of  such  extraor- 
dinary magnitude,  should  be  so  exceedingly  solicitous  about 
the  motes  that  dance  in  the  vision  of  its  neighbours. 


ESSAYS.  . 


.8YAB83 


STREET    LIFE. 

Thomas  Carltle  introduces  his  philosophical  friend, 
Herr  Teufelsdrockh,  to  his  readers,  seated  in  his  watch- 
tower,  which  overlooks  the  city  in  which  he  dwells ;  and 
from  which  he  can  look  down  into  that  bee-hive  of  human 
kind,  and  see  every  thing  "  from  the  palace  esplanade  where 
music  plays,  while  His  Serene  Highness  is  pleased  to  eat 
his  victuals,  down  to  the  low  lane  where  in  her  door-sill  the 
aged  widow,  knitting  for  a  thin  livelihood,  sits  to  feel  the 
afternoon  sun."  He  draws  an  animated  picture  of  that 
busy  panorama  which  is  ever  unrolling  before  Teufels- 
drockh's  eyes,  and  moralizes  upon  the  scene  in  the  spirit 
of  a  true  poet  who  has  struck  upon  a  theme  worthy  of  his 
lyre.  And,  most  assuredly,  Thomas  is  right  The  daisies 
and  buttercups  are  all  very  well  in  their  way  ;  but,  as  raw 
material  for  poetry,  what  are  they  to  the  deep-furrowed 
pavement  and  the  blackened  chimney-pots  of  a  city  !  In 
spite  of  all  our  pantheistic  rhapsodies,  man  is  the  noblest  of 
natural  productions,  and  the  worthiest  subject  for  the  high- 
est and  holiest  of  poetic  raptures.  My  old  friend,  the  late 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  delighted  to  anathematize  the  railway 
companies,  and  raved  finely  about  Nature  never  betraying 
the  heart  that  loves  her :  he  said  that 

"  — ^  the  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  him  like  a  passion :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  him 
An  appetite;  —  "  (189) 


190  AGUECHEEK. 

and  confessed  that  to  him 

" the  meanest  flower  that  blows  could  give 

Thoughts  that  too  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears," 

Yet  notwithstanding  all  this,  he  was  constrained  to  acknowl- 
edge when  he  stood  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  and  saw  the 
vast,  dingy  metropolis  of  Britain  wearing  like  a  garment  the 
beauty  of  the  morning,  that 

"  Earth  has  not  any  thing  to  show  more  fair,  — 
Dull  would  be  he  of  soul  who  could  pa£s  by 
4.  sight  so  touchio^  la  its  majesty." 

When  I  was  a  young  man,  it  was  my  delight  to  brush 
with  early  steps  the  dew  away,  and  meet  the  sun  upon  the 
upland  lawn.  There  was  a  romantic  feeling  about  it  that  I 
liked,  and  I  did  not  object  to  wet  feet.  But  I  have  long 
since  put  away  that  depraved  taste,  although  the  recent  ap- 
plication of  India  rubber  to  shoeing  purposes  has  obviated 
the  inconvenience  of  its  gratification.  Now,  I  am  content- 
ed if  I  can  find  a  level  pavement  and  a  clean  crossing,  and 
will  gladly  give  up  the  woods  and  verdant  fields  to  less 
prosaic  and  more  youthful  people.  Your  gout  is  a  sad  in- 
terferer  with  early  poetical  prejudices  —  but  in  my  own 
case  it  has  shown  me  that  all  such  things,  like  most  of  our 
youthful  notions,  are  mere  fallacies.  It  has  convinced  me 
that  the  poetical  abounds  rather  in  the  smoky,  narrow 
streets  of  cities,  than  in  the  green  lanes,  the  breezy  hills, 
and  the  broad  fields  of  the  country.  Like  the  toad,  ugly 
and  venomous,  that  fell  disease  is  not  without  its  jewel.  It 
has  reconciled  me  to  life  in  town,  and  has  shown  me  all  its 
advantages  and  beauties. 

If  it  be  true  that  "  the  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man," 
then  are  the  crowded  streets  of  the  city  more  improving 
and  elevating  to  us  (if  rightly  meditated  upon)  than  the 
academic  groves.    K  you  desire  society,  —  in  a  city  you 


STREET  LIFE.  191 

may  Shd  it  to  ytmf  tasfe,  howevei*  fastididUS  yott  may  be. 
If  you  are  a  lover  of  solitude,  where  can  you  be  more  soli- 
tary than  in  the  very  whirl  of  a  multitude  of  people  intent 
upon  their  own  pursuits,  and  all  unknown  to  you  !  That 
honey-tongued  doctor,  St  Bernard,  said  that  he  was  never 
less  alone  than  when  alone  —  a  sentiment,  which,  in  its  re- 
versed form,  might  be  uttered  by  any  denizen  of  a  metrop- 
olis. I  always  loved  solitude :  the  old  monastic  inscription 
was  always  a  favourite  motto  of  mine  :  — 

"  0  beata  solitudo ! 
O  sola  beatitudo ! " 

But  I  have  never  found  any  solitude  like  the  streets  of  a 
large  city.  1  have  walked  in  the  cool,  quiet  cloister  of 
Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli,  built  amid  the  ruins  of  the  baths 
of  Diocletian,  and  —  though  my  footfall  was  the  only 
sound  save  the  rustling  of  the  foliage,  and  the  song  of  the 
birds,  and  the  bubbling  of  a  fountain  which  seemed  tired 
with  its  centuries  of  service,  and  which  seemed  to  make 
the  stillness  and  repose  of  that  spacious  quadrangle  more 
profound  —  I  could  not  feel  so  perfectly  alone  there  as  I 
have  often  felt  in  the  thronged  Boulevards  or  the  busy 
Strand.  Place  a  mere  worldling  in  those  holy  precincts, 
and  he  would  summon  mentally  around  him  the  companions 
<rf  his  past  pleasures,  and  his  worldliness  would  be  increased 
by  his  thus  being  driven  to  his  only  resources  for  over- 
coming the  ungrateful  quiet  of  the  place.  Introduce  a 
religious  man  to  those  consecrated  shades,  and  his  devotion 
would  be  quickened ;  he  would  soon  forget  the  world  which 
he  had  not  loved  and  which  had  not  loved  him,  and  his  face 
would  soon  be  as  unwrinkled,  his  eye  as  serene,  as  those  of 
the  monks  who  dwell  there.  But  place  either  of  them  in 
the  most  crowded  thoroughfare  of  the  city,  and  the  world- 
ling wonld  be  m*de  for  a  time  as  meditative  as  the  other. 


192  AaUEGHEEE. 

When  I  was  a  child,  I  delighted  to  viratch  the  busy  inhabit- 
ants of  an  ant-hill,  pursuing  their  various  enterprises  with 
an  intentness  almost  human ;  and  I  should  be  tempted  to 
continue  my  observations  of  them,  were  it  not  that  the 
streets  of  my  native  city  offer  me  a  similar,  but  a  more 
interesting  study.  Xerxes,  we  are  told,  shed  tears  when 
he  saw  his  army  drawn  up  before  him,  and  reflected  that 
not  one  of  all  that  mighty  host  would,  be  alive  a  century 
after.  "Who  could  ride  from  Paddington  to  London  Bridge, 
through  the  current  of  human  life  that  flows  ceaselessly 
through  the  streets  of  that  great  city,  without  sharing 
somewhat  in  the  feelings  of  that  tender-h'earted  mon- 
arch? 

What  are  all  the  sermons  that  ever  were  preached  from 
a  pulpit,  compared  to  those  which  may  be  found  in  the 
stones  of  a  city  ?  When  we  visit  Pompeii  and  Hercula- 
neum,  we  are  thrilled  to  notice  the  ruts  made  by  the  wheels 
of  chariots  centuries  ago.  The  original  pavement  of  the 
Appian  Way,  now  for  some  distance  visible,  carries  us 
back  more  than  almost  any  of  the  other  antiquities  of 
Rome,  to  the  time  when  it  was  trodden  by  captive  kings, 
and  reechoed  with  the  triumphal  march  of  returning  con- 
querors. I  pity  him  in  whom  these  things  awaken  no  new 
train  of  thought.  The  works  of  man  have  outlived  their 
builders  by  centuries,  and  still  remain  a  solemn  testimony 
to  the  power  and  the  nothingness  which  originated  them. 
Nineveh,  Thebes,  Troy,  Carthage,  Tyre,  Athens,  Rome, 
London,  Paris,  have  won  the  crown  in  their  turn,  and  have 
passed  or  will  pass  away.  The  dilapidated  sculptures  of 
the  former  have  been  taken  to  adorn  the  museums  of  the 
latter,  and  crowds  have  gazed  and  are  gazing  on  them  with 
curious  eyes,  unmindful  of  their  great  lesson  of  the  transi- 
toriness  of  the  glory  of  the  world.  These  are,  indeed, 
"  sermons  in  stones ; "  but,  like  most  other  sermons,  we  look 


STREET  LIFE.  193 

rather  at  their  style  of  finish,  than  at  the  deep  meaning 
with  which  they  are  so  pregnant. 

But  I  did  not  take  up  my  pen  to  write  about  dead  cities ; 
I  have  somewhat  to  say  about  the  life  that  now  renders  the 
streets  of  our  own  towns  so  pleasant,  and  makes  us  so  for- 
getful of  their  inevitable  fate.  I  am  not  going  to  claim  for 
the  street  life  of  our  new  world  the  charms  which  abound 
in  the  ancient  cities  of  Europe.  We  are  too  much  troubled 
about  many  things,  and  too  utilitarian  to  give  thought  to 
those  lesser  graces  which  delight  us  abroad,  and  which  we 
hardly  remember  until  we  come  home  and  miss  them.  Our 
street  architecture,  improved  though  it  may  have  been 
within  a  few  years,  is  yet  far  behind  the  grace  and  massive 
symmetry  of  European  towns.  Our  builders  and  real 
estate  owners  need  to  be  reminded  that  it  costs  no  more  to 
build  in  good  taste  than  in  bad ;  that  brick  work  can  be 
made  as  architectural  as  stone ;  and  that  architecture  is  a 
great  public  instructor,  whose  works  are  constantly  open  to 
the  pubUc  eye,  and  from  which  we  are  learning  lessons, 
good  or  bad,  whether  we  will  or  not.  I  think  it  is  Goethe 
who  calls  architecture  frozen  music.  I  am  glad  to  see  these 
tall  piles  rearing  their  ornamented  fronts  on  every  side  of 
us,  even  though  they  are  intended  for  purposes  of  trade ; 
for  every  one  of  them  is  a  reproach  to  the  untasteful  struc- 
tures around  it,  and  an  example  which  future  builders  must 
copy,  if  they  do  not  surpass.  The  quaint  beauty  which 
charms  us  in  Rouen,  and  in  the  old  towns  of  Belgium,  — 
the  high  pitched  gables  leaning  over,  as  if  yearning  to  get 
across  the  narrow  street,  —  these  all  belong  to  another  age, 
and  we  may  not  possess  them  ;  but  the  architecture  which, 
in  its  simplicity  or  its  magnificence,  speaks  its  adaptedness 
to  our  climate  and  our  social  wants,  is  within  our  reach, 
and  is  capable  of  making  our  cities  equal  to  any  in  the 
world. 

17 


194  AGUECHEEK. 

I  have  a  great  liking  for  streets.  In  the  freshness  of 
morning,  the  glare  of  noonday,  and  the  coolness  of  even- 
ing, they  have  an  equal  charm  for  me.  I  like  that  market- 
carty  period  of  the  day,  before  Labour  has  taken  up  his 
shovel  and  his  hoe,  before  the  sun  has  tipped  the  chimneys 
with  gold,  and  reinspired  the  dolorous  symphony  of  human 
toil,  just  as  his  earliest  beams  were  wont  to  draw  supernal 
melodies  from  old  Memnon's  statue.  There  is  a  holy  quiet 
in  that  hour,  which,  could  we  preserve  it  in  our  minds, 
would  keep  us  clear  from  many  a  wrong  and  meanness, 
into  which  the  bustle  and  the  heat  of  passion  betray  us,  and 
would  sanctify  our  day.  In  that  time,  the  city  seems 
wrapped  in  a  silent  ecstasy  of  adoration.  The  incense  of 
its  worship  curls  up  from  innumerous  chimneys,  and  hangs 
over  it  like  the  fragrant  cloud  which  hovers  over  the  altars 
where  saints  have  prayed,  and  religion's  most  august  rites 
have  been  celebrated  for  centuries.  In  the  continental 
cities,  large  numbers  of  people  may  be  seen  at  that  early 
hour  repairing  to  the  churches.  They  are  drawn  together 
by  no  spasmodic,  spiritual  stimulation  ;  they  do  not  assem- 
ble to  hear  their  fellow-sinners  tell  with  nasal  twang  how 
bad  they  were  once,  and  how  good  they  are  now,  nor  to 
implore  the  curse  of  Heaven  upon  those  who  differ  from 
them  in  their  belief  or  disbelief.  They  kneel  beneath 
those  consecrated  arches,  joining  in  a  worship  in  which 
scarce  an  audible  word  is  uttered,  and  drawing  from  it  new 
strength  to  tread  the  thorns  of  life.  In  our  own  cities,  too, 
people  —  generally  of  the  poorer  classes  —  may  be  seen 
wending  their  way  in  the  early  morning  to  churches  and 
chapels,  humbler  than  the  marble  and  mosaic  sanctuaries 
of  Europe,  but  one  with  them  in  that  faith  and  worship 
which  radiates  from  the  majestic  Lateran  basilica,  (omnium 
urbis  et  orhis  ecclesiarum  mater  et  caput,)  and  encircles  the 
world  with  its  anthems  and  supplications. 


STREET  LIFE.  195 

'  A  little  later  in  the  morning,  and  the  silence  is  broken 
by  the  clattering  carts  of  the  dispensers  of  that  fluid  with- 
out which  custards  would  be  impossible.  The  washing  of 
doorsteps  and  sidewalks,  too,  begins  to  interfere  with  your 
perambulations,  and  to  dim  the  lustre  which  No.  97,  High 
Holbom,  has  imparted  to  your  shoes.  Bridget  leans  upon 
her  wet  broom,  and  talks  with  Anne,  who  leaves  her  water- 
pail  for  a  little  conference,  in  which  the  affairs  of  the  two 
neighbouring  families  of  Smith  and  Jenkins  receive,  you 
may  be  sure,  due  attention.  Men  smoking  short  and 
odorous  pipes,  and  carrying  small,  mysterious-looking  tin 
pails,  begin  to  awaken  the  echoes  with  their  brogans,  and 
to  prove  him  a  slanderer  who  should  say  they  have  no 
music  in  their  soles.  Newspaper  carriers,  bearing  the 
damp  chronicles  of  the  world's  latest  history  bestrapped  to 
their  sides,  hurry  along,  dispensing  their  favours  into  areas 
and  doorways,  seasoning  my  friend  Thompson's  breakfast 
with  the  reports  of  the  councils  of  kings,  or  with  the  read- 
able inventions  of  "  our  own  correspondent,"  and  delighting 
the  gentle  Mrs.  Thompson  with  a  full  list  of  deaths  and 
marriages,  or  another  fatal  railway  accident.  Then  the 
omnibuses  begin  to  rattle  and  jolt  along  the  streets,  carrying 
such  masculine  loads  that  they  deserve  for  the  time  to  be 
called  mail  coaches.  Later,  an  odour  as  of  broiled  mack- 
erel salutes  the  sense ;  school  children,  with  their  shining 
morning  faces,  begin  to  obstruct  your  way,  and  the  penny 
postman,  with  his  burden  of  joy  and  sorrow,  hastens  along 
and  rings  peremptorily  at  door  afler  door.  Then  the 
streets  assume  by  degrees  a  new  character.  Toil  is  en- 
gaged in  its  workshops  and  in  by-places,  and  staid  respec- 
tability, in  its  broadcloth  and  its  glossy  beaver,  wends  its 
deliberate  way  to  its  office  or  its  counting-house,  unhindered 
by  aught  that  can  disturb  its  equanimity,  unless,  perchance, 


190  AGUECHEEK. 

it  meets  with  a  gang  of  street-sweepers  in  the  full  exercise 
of  their  dusty  avocation. 

Who  can  adequately  describe  that  most  inalienable  of 
woman's  rights  —  that  favourite  employment  of  the  sex  — 
which  is  generally  termed  shopping  ?  Who  can  describe 
the  curiosity  which  overhauls  a  wilderness  of  dress  patterns, 
and  the  uncomplaining  patience  of  the  shopman  who  en- 
deavours to  suit  the  lady  so  hard  to  be  suited,  —  his  well- 
disguised  disappointment  when  she  does  not  purchase,  and 
her  husband's  exasperation  when  she  does  ?  Not  I,  most 
certainly,  for  I  detest  shops,  have  little  respect  for  fashions, 
lament  the  necessity  of  buying  clothes,  and  wish  most 
heartily  that  we  could  return  to  the  primeval  fig-leaves. 

I  love  the  by-streets  of  a  city  —  the  streets  M'hose  echoes 
are  never  disturbed  by  the  heavy-laden  wagons  which  be- 
speak the  greatness  of  our  manufacturing  interests.  For- 
merly the  houses  in  such  streets  wore  an  air  of  sobriety 
and  respectability,  and  the  good  housewifery  which  reigned 
within  was  symbolized  by  the  bright  polish  of  the  brass 
door-plate,  or  bell-pull,  or  knocker.  Now  they  are  grown 
more  pretentious,  and  the  brass  has  given  place  to  an  out- 
ward and  visible  sign  of  silver.  But  the  streets  retain  their 
old  characteristics,  and  are  strangers  to  any  sound  more 
inharmonious  than  the  shouts  of  sportive  children,  or  the 
tones  of  a  hand-organ.  I  do  not  profess  to  be  a  musical 
critic,  but  I  have  been  gifted  by  nature  with  a  tolerable  idea 
of  time  and  tune ;  yet  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I  do 
not  despise  hand-organs.  They  have  given  me  "Sweet 
Home  "  in  the  cities  of  Italy,  Yankee  Doodle  in  the  Fau- 
bourg St.  Germain;  and  the  best  molodies  of  Europe's 
composers  are  daily  ground  out  under  my  windows.  I  have 
no  patience  with  these  canting  people  who  talk  about  pro- 
ductive labour,  and  who  see  ia  the  organ-grinder  who  limps 
around,  looking  up  expectantly  for  the  remunerating  epp- 


STREET   LIFE.  197 

per,  only  a  vagabond  whom  it  is  expedient  for  the  police  to 
counsel  to  "move  on."  These  peripatetic  dispensers  of 
harmony  are  full  as  useful  members  of  society  as  the  major- 
ity of  our  legislators,  and  have  a  far  more  practical  talent 
for  organization.  Douglas  Jerrold  once  said  that  he  never 
saw  an  Italian  image  merchant,  with  his  Graces,  and  Venuses, 
and  Apollos  at  sixpence  a  head,  that  he  did  not  spiritually 
touch  his  hat  to  him  :  "  It  is  he  who  has  carried  refinement 
into  the  poor  man's  house ;  it  is  he  who  has  accustomed  the 
eyes  of  the  multitude  to  the  harmonious  forms  of  beauty." 
Let  me  apply  these  kindly  expressions  of  the  dead  drama- 
tist and  wit  to  the  organ-grinders.  They  have  carried 
music  into  lanes  and  slums,  which,  without  them,  would 
never  have  knorwTi  any  thing  more  melodious  than  a  watch- 
man's rattle,  and  have  made  the  poorest  of  our  people 
familiar  with  harmonies  that  might  "  create  a  soul  under 
the  ribs  of  death."  Occasionally  their  music  may  be  in- 
strumental in  producing  a  feeling  of  impatience,  so  that  I 
wish  that  their  "  Mary  Ann  "  were  married  off,  and  that 
Norma  would  "  hear,"  and  make  an  end  of  it ;  but  my  bet- 
ter feelings  triumph  in  the  end,  and  I  would  not  interfere 
with  the  poor  man's  and  the  children's  concert  to  hear  a 
strain  from  St.  Cecilia's  viol.  Let  the  grinders  be  encour- 
aged !  May  the  evil  days  foretold  in  ancient  prophecy 
never  come  among  us,  when  the  grinders  shall  cease  be- 
cause they  are  few ! 

It  is  at  evening  that  the  poetic  element  is  found  most 
abundant  in  the  streets  of  cities.  There  is  to  me  some- 
thing of  the  sublime  in  the  long  lines  of  glittering  shop- 
windows  that  skirt  Regent  Street  and  the  Boulevards.  Dr. 
Johnson  exhorted  the  people  who  attended  the  sale  of  his 
friend  Thrale's  brewery,  to  remember  that  it  was  not  the 
mere  collection  of  boilers,  and  tubs,  and  vats  which  they 'saw 
around  them,  for  which  they  were  about  to  bargain,  but 
17  • 


198  AGUECHEEK. 

"  the  potentiality  of  growing  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of 
avarice  ;"  and,  in  a  similar  spirit,  I  see  in  the  shop  windows 
not  merely  the  silks  and  laces,  and  the  other  countless  luxu- 
ries and  wonders  which  delight  the  eye  of  taste  and  form 
the  source  of  wealth  to  multitudes,  but  a  vast  exposition  of 
the  results  of  that  industry,  which,  next  to  religion  and 
obedience  to  law,  is  the  surest  foundation  of  national  great- 
ness, and  which  shows  us,  behind  the  frowning  Providence 
that  laid  on  man  the  curse  of  labour,  the  smiling  face  of  di- 
vine beneficence.  There,  in  one  great  collection,  may  be 
seen  the  fruits  of  the  toil  of  millions.  To  produce  that  gor- 
geous display,  artists  have  cudgelled  their  weary  brains ; 
operatives  have  suffered ;  ship-masters  have  strained  their 
eyes  over  their  charts  and  daily  observations,  and  borne  pa- 
tiently with  the  provoking  vagaries  of  the  "  lee  main  brace ; " 
sailors  have  climbed  the  icy  rigging  and  furled  the  tattered 
topsails  with  hands  cracked  and  bleeding;  for  that,  long 
trains  of  camels  freighted  with  the  rich  products  of  the 
golden  East,  "  from  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon," 
have  toiled  with  their  white-turbaned  drivers  across  the 
parching  desert ;  thousands  of  busy  hands  have  plied  the 
Bwift  shuttle  in  the  looms  of  Bnissels,  and  Tournai,  and 
Lyons;  and  thousands  in  deep  and  almost  unfathomable 
mines  have  suffered  a  living  death.  Manchester  and  Bir- 
mingham have  been  content  to  wear  their  suit  of  mourning 
that  those  windows  may  be  radiant  and  gay.  The  tears, 
and  sweat,  and  blood  of  myriads  have  been  poured  out  be- 
hind those  shining  panes  transmuted  into  shapes  that  fill  the 
beholder  with  wonder  and  delight.  "  In  our  admiration  of 
the  plumage  we  forget  the  dying  bird."  Nevertheless, 
above  the  roar  and  bustle  of  ihuse  whirling  thoroughfares, 
above  the  endless  groan  and  "  infinite  fierce  chorus  "  of  man- 
hood ground  down,  and  starving  in  bondage  more  cruel 
because  it  does  not  bear  the  name  of  slavery,  I  hear  the 


STREET    UFE.  199 

carol  of  virtuous  and  well-rewarded  labour,  and  the  cheer- 
ful song  of  the  white-capped  lace-makers  of  Belgium  and 
the  vine-dressers  of  Italy  reminds  me  that  powerful  wrong 
does  not  have  every  thing  its  own  way  even  in  this  world. 

I  did  intend  to  have  gone  farther  in  my  evening  walk ; 
but  time  and  space  alike  forbid  it.  I  wished  to  leave  the 
loud  roaring  avenues  for  those  more  quiet  streets,  where 
every  sight  and  sound  speak  of  domestic  comfort,  or  hum- 
ble fidelity,  or  patient  effort ;  where  the  brilliancy  of  splen- 
did mansions  is  but  imperfectly  veiled  by  rich  and  heavy 
draperies ;  where  high  up  gleams  the  lamp  of  the  patient 
student,  happy  in  his  present  obscurity  because  he  dreams 
of  coming  fame  ;  and  where  the  tan  on  the  pavement  and 
the  mitigated  light  from  the  windows  are  eloquent  of  suf- 
fering and  the  sleepless  affection  that  ministers  to  its  un- 
spoken wants.  But  I  must  stop.  If,  however,  I  have 
shown  one  of  my  readers,  who  regrets  that  he  is  obliged  to 
dwell  in  a  city,  that  there  is  much  that  is  beautiful  in  paved 
streets  and  smoke-stained  walls,  and  that,  if  we  only  open 
our  eyes  to  see  them,  even  though  the  fresh  fields  and  wav- 
ing woods  may  be  miles  away,  the  beauties  of  nature  daily 
fold  us  in  their  bosom,  —  I  shall  feel  that  I  have  not  tasked 
my  tired  brain  and  gouty  right  hand  entirely  in  vain. 


HARD    UP    IN    PARIS. 

Monet,  whatever  those  who  affect  misanthropy  or  a 
sublime  superiority  to  all  temporal  things  may  say  to  the 
contrary,  is  a  very  desirable  thing.  We  all  enjoy  the  visit  of 
the  great  Alexander  to  the  contented  inhabitant  of  the  im- 
perishable tub,  who  was  alike  independent  of  the  good  will 
and  displeasure  of  that  mighty  monarch ;  we  sympathize 
with  all  the  bitter  things  that  Timon  says  when  he  is  re- 
duced from  wealth  to  beggary ;  and  we  are  never  tired  of 
lamenting,  with  Virgil,  that  the  human  heart  should  be  such 
an  abject  prey  to  this  accursed  hunger  for  gold.  I  am  not 
sure  that  Horace  would  not  be  dearer  to  us,  if  he  had  lived 
in  a  "three-pair-back"  in  some  obscure  street,  and  his 
deathless  odes  had  been  inspired  by  fear  of  a  shrewish  land- 
lady or  an  inexorable  sheriff,  instead  of  being  an  honoured 
guest  at  the  imperial  court,  and  a  recipient  of  the  splendid 
patronage  of  a  Maecenas  and  an  Augustus.  Poetical  jus- 
tice seems  to  require  a  setting  of  the  most  cheerless  poverty 
for  the  full  development  of  the  lustre  of  genius.  At  least, 
we  think  so,  at  times ;  —  though,  under  it  all,  admire  as  we 
may  the  successful  struggles  of  the  want-stricken  bard,  — 
we  do  not  envy  him  his  penury.  We  should  shrink  from  his 
gifts  and  his  fame,  if  they  were  offered  to  us  with  his  suffer- 
ings. For  underneath  our  abstract  magnanimity  lurks  the 
conviction  that  money  is  by  no  means  a  bad  thing,  after  all. 
Our  enthusiasm  is  awakened  by  contemplating  the  self- 
forgetful  career  of  Francis  of  Assisi,  who  chose  Poverty  for 
his  bride,  and  whose  name  is  in  benediction  among  men, 
even  six  centuries  after  he  entered  into  possession  of  that 

(200) 


HARD   UP   IN   PARIS.  201 

kingdom  which  was  promised  to  the  poor  in  spirit ;  and,  if 
we  should  chance  to  see  a  more  modern  bearer  of  that 
Christian  name,  who  worshipped  the  wealth  which  the- 
ancient  saint  despised  ;  who  trampled  down  honest  poverty 
in  his  unswerving  march  towards  opulence ;  who  looked 
unmoved  upon  the  tears  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan ; 
wbn  exercised  his  sordid  apostolate  even  to  the  last  gasp 
of  bis  miserable  life ;  and  whose  name  (unblessed  by  the 
poor,  and  unhonoured  by  canonization)  became,  in  the  brief 
period  that  it  outlived  him,  a  byword  and  a  synonyme  of 
avarice, — we  should  not  fail  to  visit  his  memory  with  a  cor- 
dial malediction.  But,  in  spite  of  all  our  veneration  for 
Francis,  the  apostle  of  holy  poverty,  and  our  loathing  for 
his  namesake,  the  apostle  of  unholy  wealth,  we  cannot 
help  wishing  that  we  had  a  little  more  of  that  which  the 
Saint  cast  away,  and  the  miser  took  in  exchange  for  his 
soul. 

A  little  more  —  that  is  the  phrase  —  and  there  is  no 
human  being,  rich  or  poor,  who  does  not  think  that  "  a  little 
more"  is  all  that  is  needed  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  his 
earthly  happiness.  It  is  for  this  that  the  gambler  risks  his 
winnings,  and  the  merchant  perils  the  gains  of  many  toil- 
some years.  For  this,  some  men  labour- until  they  lose  the 
faculty  of  enjoying  the  fruit  of  their  exertions  ;  and  this  is 
the  ignis  fatuus  that  goes  dancing  on  before  others,  leading 
them  at  last  into  that  bog  of  bankruptcy  from  which  they 
never  wholly  extricate  themselves.  Enough  is  a  word  un- 
known in  the  lexicon  of  those  who  have  once  tasted  the 
joy  of  having  money  at  interest,  and  there  are  very  few 
men  who  practically  appreciate  the  wisdom  of  the  ancient 
dramatist  who  tells  us  that 

"  He  is  most  rich  who  stops  at  competence,  — 
Not  labours  on  till  the  worn  heart  grows  sere,  — 
Who,  wealth  attained,  upon  some  loftier  aim 
Fixes  his  eaze.  and  never  turns  it  hnpifvr.ri." 


202  AGUEGHEEK. 

"  Give  me  neither  poverty  nor  riches,"  has  been  my 
prayer  through  life,  as  it  was  that  of  the  ancient  sage ; 
and  it  has  always  been  my  opinion  that  a  man  who  owns 
even  a  single  acre  of  land  within  a  convenient  distance  of 
State  Street  or  of  the  Astor  House,  is  just  as  well  off  as  if 
he  were  rich.  My  petition  has  been  answered  :  but  it  must 
be  confessed  that  when  I  mouse  in  the  book  shops,  or  turn 
over  the  rich  portfolios  of  the  print  dealers,  I  feel  that  I 
am  poor  indeed.  I  do  not  envy  him  who  can  adorn  the 
walls  of  his  dwelling  with  the  masterpieces  of  ancient  or 
modem  art  on  their  original  canvas ;  but  I  do  crave  those 
faithful  reproductions  which  we  owe  to  the  engraver's  skill, 
and  which  come  so  near  my  grasp  as  to  aggravate  my  cov- 
etousness,  and  make  me  speak  most  disrespectfully  of  my 
unelastic  purse. 

Few  people  have  spent  any  considerable  time  abroad 
without  being  for  a  season  in  straitened  circumstances. 
A  mistake  may  have  been  made  in  reckoning  up  one's 
cash,  or  a  bill  may  be  longer  than  was  expected,  or  one's 
banker  may  temporarily  suspend  payment ;  and  suddenly 
he  who  never  knew  a  moment's  anxiety  about  his  pecuniary 
affairs  finds  himself  wondering  how  he  can  pay  for  his 
lodgings,  and  where  his  next  day's  beefsteak  is  coming  from. 
It  was  my  good  fortune  once  to  undergo  such  a  trial  in 
Paris.  I  say  good  fortmie  —  for,  unpleasant  as  it  was  at 
the  time,  it  was  one  of  the  most  precious  experiences  of 
my  life.  I  do  not  think  that  a  true,  manly  character  can 
be  formed  without  placing  the  subject  in  the  position  of  a 
ship's  helm,  when  she  is  in  danger  of  getting  aback  ;  to 
speak  less  technically,  he  must  (once  in  his  life,  at  least) 
be  hard  up. 

I  was  younger  in  those  days  than  I  am  now,  and  was 
living  for  a  time  in  the  gay  capital  of  France.  My  lodg- 
ings were  in  one  of  those  quiet  streets  that  lead  to  the 


HARD   UP   IN   PARIS.  203 

Place  Ventadour,  in  which  the  Italian  Opera  House  stands. 
My  room  was  about  twelve  feet  square,  was  handsomely 
furnished,  and  decorated  with  a  large  mirror,  and  a  polished 
oaken  floor  that  rivalled  the  mirror  in  brilliancy.  Its 
window  commanded  an  unobstructed  view  of  a  court-yard 
about  the  size  of  the  room  itself;  but,  as  I  was  pretty  high 
up  (on  the  second  floor  coming  down)  my  light  was  good, 
and  I  could  not  complain.  As  I  write,  it  seems  as  if  I 
cotlld  hear  the  old  concierge  blacking  boots  and  shoes  away 
down  at  the  bottom  of  that  well  of  a  court-yard,  enlivening 
his  toil  with  an  occasional  snatch  from  some  old  song,  and 
now  and  then  calling  out  to  his  young  wife  within  the 
house,  with  a  clear  voice,  "  Marie  ! "  —  the  accent  on  the 
final  syllable  being  prolonged  in  a  preternatural  manner. 
And  then  out  of  the  same  depths  came  a  melodious  response 
from  Marie's  blithesome  voice,  that  made  me  stop  shaving 
to  enjoy  it  —  a  voice  that  seemed  in  perfect  harmony  with 
the  cool  breath  and  bright  sky  of  that  sunny  spring  morn- 
ing. Marie  was  a  representative  woman  of  her  class.  I 
do  not  believe  that  she  could  have  been  placed  in  any 
honest  position,  however  high,  that  she  would  not  have 
adorned.  Her  simplicity  and  good  nature  conciliated  the 
good  will  of  every  one  who  addressed  her,  and  I  have 
known  her  quiet,  lady-like  dignity  to  inspire  even  some 
loud  and  boastful  Americans,  who  called  on  me,  with  a  mo- 
mentary sentiment  of  respect.  They  appeared  almost  like 
gentlemen  for  two  or  three  minutes  after  speaking  with  her. 
Upon  my  honour,  sir,  it  was  worth  considerably  more  than 
I  paid  for  my  room  to  have  the  privilege  of  living  under 
the  same  roof  with  such  a  cheery  sunbeam  —  to  see  her 
seated  daily  at  the  window  of  the  conciergerie  with  a  snow- 
white  cap  on  her  head  and  a  pleasant  smile  on  her  face ; 
to  interrupt  her  sewing,  with  an  inquiry  whether  any  letters 


204  AGUECFIEEK. 

had  come  for  me,  and  be  charmed  with  her  alacrity  in  hand- 
ing me  the  expected  note,  and  the  key  of  numero  dix-huit. 
Her  nightly  Bon  soir,  ATsieur,  was  like  a  benediction  from 
a  guardian  angel;  her  vivacious  Bon  jour  viSiS  an  augury 
of  an  untroubled  day ;  it  would  have  made  the  darkest, 
foggiest  November  afternoon  seem  as  bright,  and  fresh,  and 
exhilarating  as  a  morning  in  June.  These  are  trifles,  I 
know,  but  it  is  of  trifles  such  as  these  that  the  true  happi- 
ness of  life  is  made  up.  Great  joys,  like  great  griefs,  do 
not  possess  the  soul  so  completely,  as  we  think,  as  Welling- 
ton victorious,  or  Napoleon  defeated,  at  Waterloo,  would 
have  discovered,  if,  in  that  great  hour,  they  had  been  visited 
with  a  twinge  of  neuralgia  in  the  head,  or  a  gnawing 
dyspepsia. 

The  influenza,  or  grippe,  as  the  French  call  it,  is  not  a 
pleasant  thing  under  any  circumstances ;  but  I  think  of  a 
four  days'  attack,  during  which  Marie  attended  to  my  wants, 
as  a  period  of  unmixed  pleasure.  She  seemed  to  hover 
about  my  sick  bed,  she  moved  so  gently,  and  her  voice  (to 
use  the  words  of  my  former  cherished  friend,  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge,) was  like 


" a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a  quiet  tune." 

"  Was  it  that  Monsieur  would  be  able  to  drink  a  little  tea, 
or  would  it  please  him 'to  taste  some  cool  lemonade?" 
Helas!  Monsieur  was  too  malade  for  that;  but  the  kind 
attentions  of  that  estimable  little  woman  were  more  refresh- 
ing than  a  Baltic  Sea  of  the  beverage  that  cheers  but  does 
not  inebriate,  or  all  the  aid  that  the  lemon  groves  of  Italy 
could  afford.  Marie's  politeness  was  the  genuine  article, 
and  came  right  from  her  pure,  kind  heart.     It  was  as  far 


HARD  UP  IN   PARIS.  205 

removed  from  that  despicable  obsequiousness  which  passes 
current  with  so  many  for  politeness,  as  old-fashioned  Chris- 
tian charity  is  from  modern  philanthropy. 

But  —  pardon  my  garrulity  —  I  am  forgetting  my  story. 
In  a  moment  of  kindly  forgetfulness  I  lent  a  considerable 
portion  of  my  available  funds  to  a  friend  who  was  short, 
and  who  was  obliged  to  return  to  America,  via  England. 
I  was  in  weekly  expectation  of  a  draft  from  home  that 
would  place  me  once  more  upon  my  financial  legs.  One, 
two,  three  weeks  passed  away,  and  the  letters  from  Amer- 
ica were  distributed  every  Tuesday  morning,  but  there  was 
none  for  me.  It  gave  me  a  kind  of  faint  sensation  when 
the  clerk  at  the  banker's  gave  me  the  disappointing  answer, 
and  I  went  into  the  reading-room  of  the  establishment  to 
read  the  new  American  papers,  and  to  speculate  upon  the 
cause  of  the  unremitting  neglect  of  my  friends  at  home.  I 
shall  never  forget  my  feelings  when,  in  the  third  week  of 
my  impecuniosity,  I  found  my  exchequer  reduced  to  the 
small  sum  of  eight  francs.  I  saw  the  truth  of  Shake- 
speare's words  describing  the  "  consumption  of  the  purse  " 
as  an  incurable  disease.  I  had  many  acquaintances  and  a 
few  friends  in  Paris,  but  I  determined  not  to  borrow  if  it 
could  possibly  be  avoided.  Five  days  would  elapse  before 
another  American  mail  arrived,  and  I  resolved  that  my 
remaining  eight  francs  should  carry  me  through  to  the  event- 
ful Tuesday,  which  I  felt  sure  would  bring  the  longed-for 
succour.  I  found  a  little  dingy  shop,  in  a  narrow  street 
behind  the  Church  of  St.  Roch,  where  I  could  get  a  break- 
fast, consisting  of  a  bowl  of  very  good  coffee  and  piece  of 
bread  (I  asked  for  the  end  of  the  loaf)  for  six  sous.  My 
dinners  I  managed  to  bring  down  to  the  sum  of  twelve  sous, 
by  choosing  obscure  localities  for  the  obtaining  of  that  re- 
past, and  confining  myself  to  those  simple  and  nutritious 
viands  which  possessed  the  merit  attributed  to  the  veal  pie 
18 


206  AGUECIIEEK. 

by  Samuel  "Weller,  being  "weriy  fillin'  at  the  price." 
Sometimes  I  went  to  bed  early,  to  avoid  the  inconveniences 
of  a  light  dinner.  One  day  I  dined  with  a  friend  at  his 
lodgings,  but  I  did  not  enjoy  his  hospitality ;  I  felt  guilty, 
as  if  I  had  sacrificed  friendship  to  save  my  dwindling  purse. 
The  coarsest  bread  and  the  most  suspicious  beef  of  the  Latin 
Quarter  would  have  been  more  delicious  to  me  under  such 
circumstances  than  the  best  ragout  of  the  Boulevards  or  the 
Palais  Royal. 

Of  course,  this  state  of  things  weighed  heavily  upon  my 
spirits.  I  heard  Marie  tell  her  husband  that  Monsieur 
I'Anglais  was  bien  triste.  I  avoided  the  friends  with  whom 
I  had  been  used  to  meet,  and  (remembering  what  a  sublime 
thing  it  is  to  suifer  and  be  strong)  sternly  resolved  not  to 
borrow  till  I  found  myself  completely  gravelled.  It  grieved 
me  to  be  obliged  to  pass  the  old  blind  man  who  played  the 
flageolet  on  the  Pont  des  Arts  without  dropping  a  copper 
into  his  tin  box ;  but  the  severest  blow  was  the  being  com- 
pelled to  put  off  my  obliging  washerwoman  and  her  reason- 
able bill.  The  time  passed  away  quickly,  however.  The 
Louvre,  with  its  treasures  of  art,  was  a  blessed  asylum  for 
me.  It  cost  me  nothing,  and  I  was  there  free  from  the  im- 
portunities of  distress  which  I  could  not  relieve.  In  the 
halls  of  the  great  public  library  —  now  the  Bibliotheqvs 
Imperiah  —  I  found  myself  at  home.  Among  the  studious 
throng  that  occupied  its  vast  reading  rooms  I  was  as  inde- 
pendent as  if  my  name  had  been  Rothschild,  or  the  treas- 
ures of  the  Bank  of  France  had  been  at  my  command.  The 
master  spirits  with  whom  I  there  communed  do  not  ask 
what  their  votaries  carry  in  their  pockets.  There  is  no 
property-test  for  admission  to  the  privileges  of  their  .com- 
panionship. I  felt  the  equality  which  prevails  in  the  re- 
public of  letters.  I  knew  that  my  left  hand  neighbour  was 
not,  in  that  quiet  place,  superior  to  me  on  account  of  his 


HARD    UP    IN    PARIS.  207 

glossy  coat  and  golden-headed  cane,  and  that  I  was  no  better 
than  the  reader  at  my  right  hand  because  he  wore  a  blouse. 
I  jingled  my  two  or  three  remaining  francs  in  my  pocket, 
and  thought  how  useless  money  was,  when  the  lack  of  it 
was  no  bar  to  entrance  into  the  hallowed  presence  of 

"  Those  dead  but  sceptred  sovereigns  who  still  rule 
Oar  spirits  from  their  urns." 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  intense  satisfaction  with  which  I 
read  in  the  regulations  of  the  library  a  strict  prohibition 
against  offering  any  fees  or  gratuities  whatever  to  its  blue- 
coated  officials. 

At  last  the  expected  Tuesday  morning  came.  My  funds 
had  received  an  unlooked-for  diminution  by  receiving  a 
letter  from  my  friend  whose  wants  had  led  me  into  diffi- 
culty. He  was  just  embarking  at  Liverpool  —  hoped  that 
my  remittance  had  arrived  in  due  season  —  promised  to 
send  me  a  draft  as  soon  as  he  reached  New  York  —  envied 
my  happiness  at  remaining  in  Paris  —  and  left  me  to  pay 
the  postage  on  his  valediction.  It  would  be  difficult  for  any 
disinterested  person  to  conceive  how  dear  the  thoughtless 
writer  of  that  letter  was  to  me  in  that  unfortunate  hour. 
Then,  too,  I  was  obliged  to  lay  out  six  of  those  cherished 
copper  coins  for  a  ride  in  an  omnibus,  as  I  Avas  caught  in  a 
shower  over  in  the  vicinity  of  St.  Sulpice,  and  could  not 
afford  to  take  the  risk  of  a  rheumatic  attack  by  getting  wet. 
I  well  remember  the  cool,  business-like  air  with  which  that 
relentless  conducteur  pocketed  those  specimens  of  the  FreAch 
currency  that  were  so  precious  in  my  sight.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  these  serious  and  unexpected  drains  upon  my  finances,  I 
had  four  sous  left  after  paying  for  my  breakfast  on  that 
memorable  morning.  I  felt  uncommonly  cheerful  at  the 
prospect  of  being  relieved  from  my  troubles,  and  stopped 


208  AQUECHEEK. 

several  minutes  after  finishing  my  coffee,  and  conversed  with 
the  tidy  shopwoman  with  a  fluency  that  astonished  both  of 
us.  I  really  regretted  for  the  moment  that  I  was  so  soon 
to  be  placed  in  funds,  and  should  no  longer  enjoy  her  kindly 
services.  I  chuckled  audibly  to  myself  as  !•  pursued  my 
way  to  the  banker's,  to  think  what  an  immense  joke  it 
would  be  for  some  skilful  Charley  Bates  or  Artful  Dodger 
to  try  to  pick  my  pocket  just  then.  An  ancient  heathen 
expecting  an  answer  from  the  oracle  of  Delphos,  a  modem 
candidate  for  office  awaiting  the  count  of  the  vote,  never  felt 
more  oppressed  with  the  importance  of  the  result  than  I  did 
when  I  entered  the  banking-house.  My  delight  at  having 
a  letter  from  America  put  into  my  hands  could  only  be 
equalled  by  my  dismay  when  I  opened  it,  and  found,  instead 
of  the  draft,  a  request  from  a  casual  acquaintance  who  had 
heard  that  I  might  possibly  return  home  through  Eng- 
land, and  who,  if  I  did,  would  be  under  great  obligations 
if  I  would  take  the  trouble  to  procure  and  carry  home 
for  him  an  English  magpie  and  a  genuine  King  Charles 
spaniel ! 

I  did  not  stop  to  read  the  papers  that  morning.  As  I 
was  leaving  the  establishment,  I  met  its  chief  partner,  to 
whom  I  could  not  help  expressing  my  disappointment.  He 
was  one  of  your  hard-faced,  high-cheek-boned  Yankees, 
with  a  great  deal  of  speculation  in  his  eyes.  I  should  as 
soon  have  thought  of  attempting  the  cultivation  of  figs  and 
dates  at  Franconia  as  of  trying  to  get  a  small  loan  from 
him.  So  I  pushed  on  into  those  busy  streets  whose  liveli- 
ness seemed  to  mock  my  pitiable  condition.  I  had  come  to 
it  at  last.  I  had  got  to  borrow.  A  physician,  who  now 
stands  high  among  the  faculty  in  Boston,  was  then  residing 
in  Paris,  and,  as  I  had  been  on  familiar  terms  with  him,  I 
determined  to  have  recourse  to  him.     He  occupied  two 


HARD    UP   IN   PARIS.  209 

rooms  in  the  fifth  story  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore. 
His  apartments  were  more  remarkable  for  their  snugness 
than  for  the  extent  of  accommodation  they  afforded.  A 
snuff-taking  friend  once  offered  to  present  the  doctor  with 
one  of  his  silk  handkerchiefs  to  carpet  that  parlour  with. 
But  the  doctor's  heart  was  not  to  be  measured  by  the  size 
of  his  rooms,  and  I  knew  that  he  would  be  a  friend  in  need. 
The  concierge  told  me  that  the  doctor  had  not  gone  out,  and, 
in  obedience  to  the  instructions  of  that  functionary,  I  mounted 
the  long  staircase  and  frapped  at  the  door  of  that  estimable 
disciple  of  Galen.  It  was  not  my  usual  thrice-repeated 
stroke  upon  the  door ;  it  was  a  timid  and  uncertain  knock 
—  the  knock  of  a  borrower.  The  doctor  said  that  he  had 
been  rather  short  himself  for  a  week  or  two,  but  that  he 
should  undoubtedly  find  a  letter  in  the  General  Post  that 
morning  that  would  place  him  in  a  condition  to  give  me  a 
lift.  This  was  said  in  a  manner  that  put  me  entirely  at  my 
ease,  and  made  me  feel  that  by  accepting  his  loan  I  should 
be  conferring  an  inestimable  favour  upon  him.  As  we 
walked  towards  the  Rue  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  I  amused 
him  with  the  story  of  the  preceding  week's  adventures.  He 
laughed  heartily,  and  after  a  few  minutes  I  joined  with  him, 
though  I  must  say  that  the  events,  as  they  occurred,  did  not 
particularly  impress  me  as  subjects  for  very  hilarious  mirth. 
The  doctor  inquired  at  the  poste  restante  in  vain.  His 
friends  had  been  as  remiss  as  mine,  and  we  had  both  got  to 
wait  another  week.  The  doctor  was  not  an  habitually  pro- 
fane man,  but  as  we  came  through  the  court-yard  of  the 
post  office,  he  expressed  his  anxiety  as  to  what  the  devil 
we  should  do.  He  examined  his  purse,  and  found  that  his 
available  assets  amounted  to  a  trifle  more  than  nineteen 
francs.  He  looked  as  troubled  as  he  had  before  looked  gay. 
I  generously  offered  him  my  four  remaining  coppers,  and 
18* 


210  AGUECHEEK. 

told  him  that  I  would  stand  by  him  as  long  as  he  had  a 
centime  in  his  pocket.  Such  an  exhibition  of  magnanimity 
could  not  be  made  in  vain.  We  stopped  in  front  of  the 
church  of  Our  Lady  of  Victories,  and  took  the  heroic 
resolve  to  club  our  funds  and  go  through  the  week 
of  expectation  together.  And  we  did  it.  I  wish  that 
space  would  allow  "f  »«y  describing  the  achievements  of 
that  week.  Medical  books  were  cast  aside  for  the  study  of 
domestic  economy.  I  do  not  believe  that  a  similar  sum  of 
money  ever  went  so  far  before,  even  in  Paris.  We  found 
a  place  in  a  narrow  street,  near  the  Odeon,  where  fried 
potatoes  were  sold  very  cheap ;  we  bought  our  bread  by  the 
loaf,  as  it  was  cheaper  —  the  loaves  being  so  long  that  the 
doctor  said  that  he  understood,  when  he  first  saw  them,  why 
bread  was  called  the  staff  of  life.  We  resorted  to  all  sorts 
of  expedients  to  make  a  franc  buy  as  much  as  possible  of 
the  necessaries  of  life.  We  frequented  with  great  assiduity 
all  places  of  public  amusement  where  there  was  no  fee  for 
admission.  The  public  galleries,  the  libraries,  the  puppet 
shows  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  were  often  honoured  with 
our  presence.  We  made  a  joke  of  our  necessities,  and  car- 
ried it  through  to  the  end.  The  next  Tuesday  morning 
found  us,  after  breakfasting,  on  our  way  to  the  post  office, 
with  a  franc  left  in  our  united  treasury.  I  had  begun  to 
give  up  all  hopes  of  our  ever  getting  a  letter  from  home, 
and  insisted  upon  the  doctor's  trying  his  luck  first.  He  was 
successful,  but  the  severest  part  of  the  joke  came  when  he 
found  that  his  letter  (contrary  to  all  precedent)  was  not 
postpaid.  The  polite  official  at  the  window  must  have  thirty- 
two  sous  for  it,  and  we  had  but  twenty.  Our  laughter 
showed  him  the  whole  state  of  the  case,  and  we  left  him 
greatly  amused  at  our  promises  to  return  soon,  and  get  the 
desirable  prize.     My  application  at  the  banker's  was  sue- 


HARD   UP  IN  PARIS.  211 

cessful,  too,  and  before  noon  we  were  both  prepared  to  laugh 
a  siege  to  scorn.  I  paid  the  rosy-cheeked  washerwoman, 
bought  Marie  a  neat  crucifix  to  hang  up  in  the  place  of  a 
very  rude  one  in  her  conctergerie,  out  of  sheer  good  humour ; 
and  that  evening  the  doctor  and  I  laughed  over  the  recol- 
lections of  the  week  and  a  good  dinner  in  a  quiet  restaurant 
in  the  Palais  Eoyal. 


THE   OLD    CORNER. 

The  human  heart  loves  corners.  The  very  word  '*  cor- 
ner "  is  suggestive  of  snugness  and  cosy  comfort,  and  he 
who  has  no  liking  for  them  is  something  more-  or  less  than 
mortal.  I  have  seen  people  whose  ideas  of  comfort  were 
singularly  crude  and  imperfect;  who  thought  that  it  con- 
sisted in  keeping  a  habitation  painfully  clean,  and  in  having 
every  book  or  paper  that  might  give  token  of  the  place 
being  the  dwelling  of  a  human  being,  carefully  out  of  sight. 
We  have  great  cause  for  thankfulness  that  such  people  are 
not  common,  (for  a  little  wholesome  negligence  is  by  no 
means  an  unpleasant  thing,)  so  that  we  can  say  that  mankind 
generally  likes  to  snuggify  itself,  and  is  therefore  fond  of  a 
corner.  This  natural  fondness  is  manifested  by  the  child  with 
his  playthings  and  infantile  sports,  in  one  of  which,  at  least, 
the  attractions  of  comers  for  the  feline  race  are  brought 
strongly  before  his  inquisitive  mind.  And  how  is  this  liking 
strengthened  and  built  up  as  the  child  increases  in  secular 
knowledge,  and  learns  in  the  course  of  his  poetical  and  his- 
torical researches  all  about  the  personal  history  of  Master 
John  Horner,  whose  sedentary  habits  and  manducation  of 
festive  pastry  are  famous  wherever  the  language  of  Shake- 
speare and  Milton  is  spoken ! 

This  love  of  nooks  and  corners  is  especially  observable 
in  those  who  are  obliged  to  live  in  style  and  splendour. 
Many  a  noble  English  family  has  been  glad  to  escape  from 
the  bondage  of  its  rank,  and  has  found  more  real  comfort 
in  the  confinement  of  a  Parisian  entresol  than  amid  the 
gloomy  grandeur  of  its  London  home.     Those  who  are  con- 

(212) 


THE   OLD   CORNER.  218 

demned  to  dwell  in  palaces  bear  witness  to  this  natural  love 
of  snugness,  by  choosing  some  quiet  sunny  corner  in  their 
marble  halls,  and  making  it  as  comfortable  as  if  it  were  a 
cosy  cottage-  Napoleon  and  Eugenie  delight  to  escape 
from  the  magnificence  of  the  Tuileries  to  that  quiet  and 
homelike  refuge  for  people  who  are  burdened  with  imperial 
dignity,  amid  the  thick  foliage  and  green  alleys  of  St. 
Cloud.  Even  in  that  mighty  maze,  the  Vatican,  the  rooms 
inhabited  by  the  Sovereign  Pontiff  are  remarkably  comfort- 
able and  unpalatial,  and  prove  the  advantages  of  smallness 
and  simplicity  over  gilding  and  grandeur,  for  the  ordinary 
purposes  of  life.  An  American  gentleman  once  called  on 
the  great  and  good  Cardinal  Cheverus,  and  while  talking 
with  him  of  his  old  friends  in  America,  said  that  the  con- 
trast between  the  Cardinal's  position  in  the  episcopal  palace 
of  Bordeaux  and  in  his  former  humble  residence  when  he 
was  Bishop  of  Boston,  was  a  very  striking  one.  The 
humble  and  pious  prelate  smiled,  and  taking  his  visitor  by 
the  arm,  led  him  from  the  stately  hall  in  which  they  were 
conversing,  into  a  narrow  room  furnished  in  a  style  of 
austere  simplicity :  "  The  palace,"  said  he,  "  which  you 
have  seen  and  admired  is  the  residence  of  the  Cardinal 
Archbishop  of  Boi'deaux ;  but  this  little  chamber  is  where 
John  Cheverus  lives." 

Literary  men  and  statesmen  have  always  coveted  the 
repose  of  a  corner  where  they  might  be  undisturbed  by  the 
wranglings  of  the  world.  Twickenham,  and  Lausanne,  and 
Ferney,  and  Rydal  Mount  have  become  as  shrines  to  which 
the  lover  of  books  would  fain  make  pilgrimages.  Have  we 
not  a  Sunnyaide  and  an  Idlewild  even  in  this  new  land  of 
ours  !  Cicero,  in  spite  of  his  high  opinion  of  Marcus  Tul- 
lius,  and  his  thirst  for  popular  applause,  often  grew  tired  of 
urban  life,  and  was  glad  to  forsake  the  Senatus  populusque 
SoTKanut  for  the  quiet  of  his  snug  villa  in  a  corner  of  the  hill 


214  AGUECHEKK. 

country  overlooking  Frascati.  And  did  not  our  own  Tully 
love  to  fling  aside  the  burden  of  his  power,  and  find  his 
Tusculum  on  the  old  South  Shore  ?  In  the  Senate  Cham- 
ber or  the  Department  of  State  you  might  see  the  Defender 
of  the  Constitution,  but  it  was  at  Marshfield  that  Webster 
really  lived.  Horace  loved  good  company  and  the  enter- 
tainment of  his  wealthy  patrons  and  friends,  but  he  loved 
snugness  and  quiet  even  more.  In  one  of  his  odes  he 
apostrophizes  his  friend  Septimius,  and  describes  to  him 
the  delight  he  takes  in  the  repose  of  his  Tiburtine  retreat 
from  the  bustle  of  the  metropolis,  saying  that  of  all  places 
in  the  world  that  comer  is  the  most  smiling  and  grateful  to 

him:  — 

Ille  terrarum  mihi  prseter  omnes 
Anguliis  ridet. 

If  we  look  into  our  hearts,  I  think  we  shall  most  of  us 
find  that  we  have  a  clinging  attachment  to  some  favourite 
comer,  as  well  as  Mr.  Horatius  Flaccus.  There  is  at  least 
one  comer  in  the  city  of  Boston,  which  has  many  pleasant 
associations  for  the  lover  of  literature.  Allusion  was  made 
a  few  days  since,  in  an  evening  paper,  to  the  well-known 
fact  that  the  old  building  at  the  corner  of  Washington  and 
School  Streets  was  built  in  1713,  and  is  therefore  older  by 
seventeen  years  than  the  Old  South  Church.  That  little 
paragraph  reminded  me  of  some  passages  in  the  history  of 
that  ancient  edifice  related  to  me  by  an  ancestor  of  mine, 
for  whom  the  place  had  an  almost  romantic  charm. 

The  old  building  (my  grandfather  used  to  tell  me)  was 
originally  a  dwelling-house.  It  had  the  high  wainscots, 
the  broad  staircases,  the  carved  cornices,  and  all  the  other 
blessed  old  peculiarities  of  the  age  in  which  it  was  built, 
which  we  irreverently  have  improved  away.  One  hundred 
years  ago  the  old  corner  was  considered  rather  an  aristo- 
cratic place  of  residence.     It  was  slightly  suburban  in  its 


THE  OLD  COBNER.  215 

position,  for  the  town  of  Boston  had  an  affection  for  Copp's 
Hill,  and  the  inhabitants  clustered  about  that  sacred  em- 
inence as  if  the  southern  parts  of  their  territory  were  a 
quicksand.  Trees  were  not  uncommon  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  foot  of  School  Street  in  those  days,  and  no  innovating 
Hathorne  had  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  place  with  count- 
less omnibuses.  The  old  corner  was  then  occupied  by  an 
English  gentleman  named  Barmesyde,  who  gave  good  din- 
ners, and  was  on  intimate  terms  with  the  colonial  governor. 
My  venerated  relative,  to  whom  I  have  already  alluded,  en- 
joyed his  friendship,  and  in  his  latter  days  delighted  to  talk 
of  him,  and  tell  his  story  to  those  who  had  heard  it  so  often, 
that  Hugh  Greville  Barmesyde,  Esquire,  seemed  like  a  com- 
panion of  their  own  young  days. 

Old  Barmesyde  sprang  from  an  ancient  Somersetshire 
family,  from  which  he  inherited  a  considerable  property,  and 
a  remarkable  energy  of  chai-acter.  He  increased  his  wealth 
during  a  residence  of  many  years  in  Antigua,  at  the  close 
of  which  he  relinquished  his  business,  and  returned  to  Eng- 
land to  marry  a  beautiful  English  lady  to  whom  he  had 
engaged  himself  in  the  West  Indies.  He  arrived  in  Eng- 
land the  day  after  the  funeral  of  his  betrothed,  who  had 
fallen  a  victim  to  intermittent  fever.  Many  of  his  relations 
had  died  in  his  absence,  and  he  found  himself  like  a  stranger 
in  the  very  place  where  he  had  hoped  to  taste  again  the  joys 
of  home.  The  death  of  the  lady  he  loved  so  dearly,  and 
the  changes  in  his  circle  of  friends,  were  so  depressing  to 
him,  that  he  resolved  to  return  to  the  West  Indies.  He 
thought  it  would  be  easier  for  him  to  continue  in  the  associ- 
ations he  had  formed  there  than  to  recover  from  the  shock 
his  visit  to  England  had  given  him.  So  he  took  passage  in 
a  brig  from  Bristol  to  Antigua,  and  said  farewell  forever,  as 
he  supposed,  to  his  native  land.  Before  half  the  voyage 
was  accomplished,  the  vessel  was  disabled :  as  Mr.  Choate 


216  AGUECHEEK. 

would  express  it,  a  north-west  gale  inflicted  upon  her  a  seri- 
ous, an  immedicable  injury ;  and  she  floated  a  wreck  upon 
the  foamy  and  uneven  surface  of  the  Atlantic.  She  was 
fallen  in  with  by  another  British  vessel,  bound  for  Boston, 
which  took  off  her  company,  and  with  the  renewal  of  the 
storm  she  foundered  before  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  so 
lately  risked  their  lives  upon  her  seaworthiness.  When  Mr. 
Barmesyde  arrived  in  Boston,  he  found  an  old  friend  in  the 
governor  of  the  Province  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  Governor 
Pownall  had  but  lately  received  his  appointment  from  the 
Crown,  and  being  a  comparative  stranger  in  Boston,  he  was 
as  glad  to  see  Mr.  Barmesyde  as  the  latter  was  to  see  him. 
It  was  several  months  before  an  opportunity  to  reach  the 
West  Indies  offered  itself,  and  when  one  did  occur,  Mr. 
Barmesyde  only  used  it  to  communicate  with  his  agent  at 
Antigua.  He  had  given  up  all  ideas  of  returning  thither, 
and  had  settled  down,  with  his  negro  servant  Cato,  to  house- 
keeping at  the  comer  of  School  Street,  within  a  few  doors 
of  his  gubernatorial  friend. 

Governor  Pownall's  term  of  office  was  not  a  long  one, 
but  even  when  he  was  removed,  Mr.  Barmesyde  stuck  faith- 
fully to  the  old  corner.  He  had  found  many  warm  friends 
here,  and  could  no  longer  consider  himself  alone  in  the 
world.  He  was  a  man  of  good  natural  powers,  and  of 
thorough  education.  He  was  one  of  those  who  seem  never 
to  lose  any  thing  that  they  have  once  acquired.  In  person 
he  was  tall  and  comely,  and  my  grandfather  said  that  he 
somewhat  resembled  General  Washington  as  he  appeared 
twenty-five  years  later,  excepting  that  Mr.  Barmesyde's 
countenance  was  more  jolly  and  port-winy.  From  all  I 
can  learn,  his  face,  surmounted  by  that  carefully-powdered 
head  of  hair,  must  have  resembled  a  red  brick  house  after 
a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  If  Hugh  Barmesyde  had  a  fault,  I 
am  afraid  it  was  a  fondness  for  good  living.     He  attended 


THE  OLD  corner;  217 

to  his  marketing  in  person,  assisted  by  his  faithful  Cato, 
wlio  was  as  good  a  judge  in  such  matters  as  his  master,  and 
who  used  to  vindicate  the  excellence  of  his  master's  fare  by 
eating  until  he  was  black  in  the  face.  For  years  there 
were  few  vessels  arrived  from  England  without  bringing 
choice  wines  to  moisten  the  alimentary  canal  of  Mr.  Barme- 
syde.  The  Windward  Isles  contributed  boimtifully  to  keep 
alight  the  festive  flame  that  blazed  in  his  cheery  counte- 
nance, and  to  make  his  flip  and  punch  the  very  best  that 
the  province  could  produce.  Every  Sunday  morning  Mr. 
Barmesyde's  best  buckles  sparkled  in  the  sunbeams  as  he 
walked  up  School  Street  to  the  King's  Chapel.  Not  that 
he  was  an  eminently  religious  man,  but  he  regarded  religion 
as  an  institution  that  deserved  encouragement  for  the  sake 
of  maintaining  a  proper  balance  in  society.  The  quiet  order 
and  dignity  of  public  worship  pleased  him,  the  liturgy  grat- 
ified his  taste,  and  so  Sunday  after  Sunday  his  big  manly 
voice  headed  the  responses,  and  told  that  its  possessor  had 
done  many  things  that  he  ought  not  to  have  done,  and  had 
left  undone  a  great  many  that  he  ought  to  have  done. 

Mr.  Barraesyde  was  not  a  mere  feeder  on  good  things, 
however ;  he  had  a  cultivated  taste  for  literature,  and  his 
invoices  of  wine  were  frequently  accompanied  by  parcels  of 
new  books.  The  old  gentleman  took  a  great  delight  in 
the  English  literature  of  that  day.  Fielding  and  Smollett 
were  writing  then,  and  no  one  took  a  keener  pleasure  in 
their  novels  than  he.  He  imported,  as  he  used  to  boast,  the 
first  copy  of  Dr.  Johnson's  Dictionary  that  ever  came  to 
America,  and  was  never  tired  of  reading  that  stately  and 
pathetic  preface,  or  of  searching  for  the  touches  of  satu-e 
and  individual  prejudice  that  abound  in  that  entertaining 
work.  His  well-worn  copy  of  the  Spectator,  in  eight  duo- 
decimo volumes,  presented  by  him  to  my  grandfather,  now 
graoefi  one  of  my  book  shelves.  His  books  were  always  at 
19 


218  AOUECHEEK. 

the  service  of  his  friends,  who  availed  themselves  of  the  old 
gentleman's  kindness  to  such  an  extent  that  his  collection 
might  have  been  called  a  circulating  library.  But  it  was 
not  merely  for  the  frequent  "  feast  of  reason  and  flow  of 
soul "  that  his  friends  were  indebted  to  him.  He  was  the 
very  incarnation  of  hospitality.  I  am  afraid  that  my  excel- 
lent grandparent  had  an  uncommon  admiration  for  this  trait 
in  the  old  fellow's  character,  for  a  frequent  burning  twinge 
in  one  of  the  toes  of  my  right  foot,  and  occasionally  in  the 
knuckles  of  my  left  hand,  reminds  me  of  his  fondness  for 
keeping  his  legs  under  Mr.  Barmesyde's  festive  mahogany. 
A  few  years  ago,  when  a  new  floor  was  laid  in  the  cellar  at 
the  old  corner,  a  large  number  of  empty  bottles  was  discov- 
ered, whose  appearance  bore  witness  to  the  previous  good 
character  of  the  place  as  a  cellar.  Some  labels  were  also 
found  bearing  dates  like  1697,  1708,  1721,  &c.  To  this 
day  the  occupants  of  the  premises  take  pleasure  in  showing 
the  dark  wine  stains  on  the  old  stairs  leading  to  the  cellar. 
But  Mr.  Barmesyde's  happiness,  like  the  gioia  de  pro/ant, 
which  we  have  all  heard  the  chorus  in  the  last  scene  of  Lu- 
crezia  Borgia  discordantly  allude  to,  was  but  transient.  The 
dispute  which  had  been  brewing  for  years  between  the  colo- 
nies and  the  mother  country,  began  to  grow  unpleasantly 
warm.  Mr.  B.  was  a  stanch  loyalist.  He  allowed  that 
injustice  had  been  done  to  the  colonies,  but  still  he  could 
not  throw  off  his  allegiance  to  his  most  religious  and  gracious 
king,  George  III.,  Defender  of  the  Faith.  He  was  ready 
to  do  and  to  suffer  as  much  for  his  principles  as  the  most 
ardent  of  the  revolutionists.  And  he  was  not  alone  in  his 
loyalty.  There  were  many  old-fashioned  conservative 
people  in  this  revolutionary  and  ismatic  city  in  those  days 
as  well  as  now.  The  publication  in  this  city  of  a  transla- 
tion of  ])e  Maistre's  great  defence  of  the  monarchical 
principle  of  government,    (the  Essay  on   the  Generative 


THE   OLD   CORNER.  219 

Principle  of  Political  Constitutions,)  and  of  the  late  Mr. 
Oliver's  "  Puritan  Commonwealth,"  proves  that  the  surren- 
der of  Cornwallis  and  the  formation  of  the  Federal  Consti- 
tution did  not  destroy  the  confidence  of  a  good  many  persons 
in  the  truth  of  the  principles  on  which  the  loyalists  took 
their  stand.  The  unfortunate  occurrence  in  State  Street, 
March  5,  1770,  gave  Mr.  B.  great  pain.  He  regretted  the 
bloodshed,  but  he  regretted  more  deeply  to  see  many  per- 
sons so  blinded  by  their  hatred  of  the  king's  most  excellent 
majesty,  as  to  defend  and  praise  the  action  of  a  lawless  mob 
just  punished  for  their  riotous  conduct.  The  throwing 
overboard  of  the  tea  excited  his  indignation.  He  stigma- 
tized it  (and  not  without  some  reason  on  his  side)  as  a 
wanton  and  cowardly  act,  —  a  destruction  of  the  property 
of  parties  against  whom  the  town  of  Boston  had  no  cause 
of  complaint,  —  a  deed  which  proved  how  little  real  regard 
for  justice  and  honour  there  might  be  among  those  who  were 
the  loudest  in  their  shrieks  for  freedom.  Of  course  he  could 
not  give  utterance  to  these  sentiments  without  exciting  the  ire 
of  many  people ;  and  feeling  that  he  could  no  longer  safely 
remain  in  this  country,  he  concluded  to  return  to  England. 
In  the  spring  of  1774,  Hugh  Greville  Barmesyde  gave  his 
last  dinner  to  a  few  of  the  faithful  at  the  old  corner,  and 
sailed  the  next  day  with  a  sorrowing  heart  and  his  trusty 
Cato  for  the  land  of  his  birth.  He  spent  the  remainder  of 
his  days  in  London,  where  he  died  in  1795.  He  was  in- 
terred in  the  vault  belonging  to  his  family,  in  the  north 
transept  of  the  Parish  Church  of  Shepton  Mallet,  in  Somer- 
setshire, where  there  is  still  a  handsome  tablet  commemo- 
rating his  many  virtues  and  the  inconsolable  grief  of  the 
nephews  and  nieces  whom  his  decease  enriched. 

Some  of  the  less  orderly  "  liberty  boys  "  bore  witness  to 
the  imperfect  sympathy  that  existed  between  them  and  the 
late  occupant  of  the  old  corner,  by  breaking  sundry  panes 


•2'20  AGUECHEEIv. 

of  glass  in  the  parlour  windows  the  night  after  his  departure. 
The  old  house,  during  the  revolutionary  struggle,  followed 
the  common  prosaic  course  of  ordinarj'  occupancy.  There 
was  "  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage  "  under  that  steep 
and  ancient  roof  in  those  days,  and  troops  of  clamorous 
children  used  to  play  upon  the  broad  stone  steps,  and  tarnish 
the  brasses  that  Cato  was  wont  to  keep  so  clean  and  bright. 
In  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century  the  old  house  under- 
went a  painful  transformation.  An  enterprising  apothecary 
perverted  it  to  the  uses  of  trade,  and  decorated  its  new 
windows  with  the  legitimate  jars  of  various  coloured  fluids. 
It  is  now  nearly  half  a  century  since  it  became  a  bookstore. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  offer  any  disturbance  to  the  modesty 
of  my  excellent  friends,  Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields,  by 
enlarging  upon  the  old  corner  in  its  present  estate.  It  were 
useless  to  write  about  any  thing  so  familiar.  They  are 
young  men  yet,  and  must  pardon  me  if  I  have  used  the  pre- 
rogative of  age  and  spoken  too  freely  about  their  old  estab- 
lishment and  its  reminiscences.  I  love  the  old  corner,  and 
should  not  hesitate  to  apply  to  it  the  words  of  Horace  which 
I  have  quoted  above.  I  love  its  freedom  from  pretence  and 
ostentation.  New  books  seem  more  grateful  to  me  there 
than  elsewhere ;  for  the  dinginess  of  Paternoster  Row 
harmonizes  better  with  literature  than  the  plate  glass  and 
gairish  glitter  of  Piccadilly  or  Regent  Street. 

The  large  looking-glass  which  stands  near  the  Washing- 
ton Street  entrance  to  the  old  comer  used  to  adorn  the 
dining-room  where  Mr.  Barmesyde  gave  so  many  feasts. 
It  is  the  only  relic  of  that  worthy  gentleman  now  remain- 
ing under  that  roof.  If  that  glass  could  only  publish  its  re- 
flexions during  the  past  century,  what  an  entertaining  work 
on  the  curiosities  of  literature  and  of  life  it  might  make  !  It 
is  no  ordinary  place  that  may  boast  of  having  been  the  fa- 
miliar resort  of  people  like  Judge  Story,  Mr.  Otis,  Chan- 


THE  OLD   CORNER.  221 

ning,  Kirkland,  "Webster,  Choate,  Everett,  Charles  Kemble 
and  the  elder  Vandenhoff  with  their  gifted  daughters,  Ellen 
Tree,  the  Woods,  Finn,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  James,  Ban- 
croft, Prescott,  Emerson,  Brownson,  Dana,  Halleck,  Bryant, 
Hawthorne,  Longfellow,  Holmes,  Lowell,  Willis,  Bayard 
Taylor,  Whipple,  Parkman,  Hillard,  Sumner,  Parsons, 
Sprague,  and  so  many  others  whose  names  will  live  in  litera- 
ture and  history.  It  is  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  see  literary 
men  at  their  ease,  as  they  always  are  around  those  old 
counters.  It  is  a  relief  to  find  that  they  can  throw  off  at 
times  the  dignity  and  restraint  of  authorship.  It  is  pleasant 
to  see  the  lecturer  and  the  divine  put  away  their  tiresome 
earnestness  and  severe  morality,  and  come  down  to  the  jest 
of  the  day.  It  refreshes  one  to  know  that  Mr.  Emerson  is 
not  always  orphic,  and  that  the  severely  scholastic  Everett 
can  forget  his  elegant  and  harmonious  sentences,  and  descend 
to  common  prose.  For  we  can  no  more  bear  to  think  of  an 
orator  living  unceasingly  in  oratory  than  we  could  of  Signo- 
rina  Zanfretta  being  obliged  to  remain  constantly  poised  on 
the  corde  tendue. 

The  bust  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  filled  the  space  above 
the  mirror  I  have  spoken  of,  for  many  years.  It  is  a  fine 
work  of  Chantrey's,  and  a  good  likeness  of  that  head  of  Sir 
Walter's,  so  many  stories  high  that  one  can  never  wonder 
where  all  his  novels  came  from.  Except  this  specimen  of 
the  plastic  art,  and  one  of  Professor  Agassiz,  there  is  little 
that  is  ornamental  in  "the  ancient  haunt.  The  green  cur- 
tain that  decorates  the  western  corner  of  the  establishment 
is  a  comparatively  modern  institution.  It  was  found  neces- 
sary to  fence  off  that  portion  of  the  shop  for  strict  business 
purposes.  The  profane  converse  of  the  world  cannot  pene- 
trate those  folds.  Into  that  sanctissimum  sanctissimorum 
no  joke,  however  good,  may  enter.  What  a  strange  dispen- 
sation of  Providence  is  it,  that  a  man  should  have  been  for 
19* 


222  AGUECHEEK. 

years  enjoying  the  good  society  that  abounds  at  that  corner, 
and  yet  should  seem  to  have  so  little  liking  for  a  quiet  jest 
as  the  estimable  person  who  conceals  his  seriousness  behind 
that  green  curtain  I 

But  every  thing  must  yield  to  the  law  of  nature,  and  the 
old  corner  must  share  the  common  lot.  Some  inauspicious 
night,  the  fire-alarm  will  sound  for  District  III. ;  hoarse 
voices  will  echo  at  the  foot  of  School  Street,  calling  earnestly 
on  No.  3  to  "  hold  on,"  and  No.  9  to  "  play  away ; "  where 
erst  good  liquor  was  wont  to  abound  water  will  more  abound, 
and  when  the  day  dawns  Mr.  Barmesyde's  old  house  will  be 
an  unsightly  ruin,  —  there  will  be  mourning  and  desolation 
among  the  lovers  of  literature,  and  wailing  in  the  insurance 
offices  in  State  Street.  When  the  blackened  ruins  are 
cleared  away,  boys  will  pick  up  scraps  of  scorched  manu- 
scripts, and  sell  them  piecemeal  as  parts  of  the  original  copy 
of  Hiawatha,  or  Evangeline,  or  the  Scarlet  Letter.  In  the 
fulness  of  time,  a  tall,  handsome  stone  or  iron  building  will 
rise  on  that  revered  site,  and  we  lovers  of  the  past  shall 
try  to  invest  it  with  something  of  the  unpretending  dignity 
and  genial  associations  of  the  present  venerable  pile,  which 
will  then  be  cherished  among  our  most  precious  memories. 


SACRED    TO    THE    MEMORY    OP    THEATRE 
ALLEY. 

We  are  all  associationists.  There  is  no  man  who  does 
not  believe  in  association  in  some  degree.  For  myself,  I 
am  firm  in  the  faith.  Let  me  not  be  misunderstood,  how- 
ever ;  I  do  not  mean  that  principle  of  association  which 
the  late  Mr.  Fourier  advocated  in  France,  and  Mr.  Bris- 
bane in  America.  I  do  not  believe  in  the  Utopian  schemes 
which  have  been  ground  out  of  the  brains  of  philosophers 
who  mistake  vagueness  and  impracticability  for  sublimity, 
and  which  they  have  misnamed  association.  The  principle 
of  association  to  which  I  pay  homage  is  one  which  finds  a 
home  in  every  human  heart.  It  is  that  principle  of  our 
nature  which,  when  the  bereaved  Queen  Constance  was 
mourning  for  her  absent  child,  "  stuffed  out  his  vacant  gar- 
ments with  his  form."  It  is  that  principle  which  makes  a 
man  love  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood,  and  which  brings  tears 
to  the  eyes  of  the  traveller  in  a  foreign  land,  ^vhen  he  hears 
a  familiar  strain  from  a  hand  organ,  however  harsh  and  out 
of  tune.  Even  the  brute  creation  seems  to  share  in  it ;  the 
cat  is  sure  to  be  found  in  her  favourite  place  at  the  fireside, 
while  the  tea  kettle  makes  music  on  the  hob  ;  the  dog,  too, 
(let  Hercules  himself  do  what  he  may,)  will  not  only  have 
his  day,  but  will  have  his  chosen  comer  for  repose,  and 
will  stick  to  it,  however  tempting  you  may  make  other 
places  by  a  superabundance  of  door  mats  and  other  canine 
furniture.  And  the  tired  cart  horse,  when  his  day's  labour 
is  over,  and  he  finds  himself  once  more  in  the  familiar 
stall,  with  his  provender  before  him  —  do  you  not  suppose 

(223) 


224  AGUECHEEK. 

that  the  associations  of  equine  comfort  by  which  he  is  sur* 
rounded  are  dearer  to  him  than  any  hopes  of  the  luxury 
and  splendour  of  Her  Britannic  Majesty's  stables  at  Wind- 
sor could  be?  Ask  him  if  he  would  leave  his  present  peck 
of  oats  for  the  chances  of  royal  service,  and  a  red-waist- 
coated,  white-top-booted  groom  to  wait  upon  him,  and  I  will 
warrant  you  that  he  will  answer  nay! 

There  is  no  nation  nor  people  that  is  free  from  this  bondage 
of  association.  We  treasure  General  Jackson's  garments  with 
respectful  care  in  a  glass  case  in  the  Patent  Office  at  Wash- 
ington ;  in  the  Louvre,  you  shall  find  preserved  the  crown 
of  Charlemagne  and  the  old  gray  coat  of  the  first  Napo- 
leon ;  and  at  Westminster  Abbey,  (if  you  have  the  money 
to  pay  your  admission  fee,)  you  may  see  the  plain  old  oaken 
chair  in  which  the  crowned  monarchs  of  a  thousand  years 
have  sat.  Go  to  Rome,  and  stand  '*  at  the  base  of  Pom- 
pey's  statua,"  and  association  shall  carry  you  back  in  imagi- 
nation to  the  time  when  the  mighty  Julius  fell.  Stand 
upon  the  grassy  mounds  of  Tusculum,  and  you  will  find 
yourself  glowing  with  enthusiasm  for  Cicero,  and  wonder 
how  you  could  have  grown  so  sleepy  over  Quousque  tan- 
dem, &c.,  in  your  school-boy  days.  Climb  up  the  Traste- 
verine  steep  to  where  the  convent  of  San  Onofrio  suns 
itself  in  the  bright  blue  air  of  Rome,  and  while  the  monks 
are  singing  the  divine  office  where  the  bones  of  Tasso 
repose,  you  may  fill  your  mind  with  memories  of  the  bard 
of  the  crusades,  in  the  chamber  where  his  weary  soul 
found  the  release  it  craved.  Go  to  that  fair  capital  which 
seems  to  have  hidden  itself  among  the  fertile  hills  of  Tus« 
cany ;  walk  through  its  pleasant  old  streets,  and  you  shall 
find  yourself  the  slave  of  many  pleasing  associations.  The 
very  place  where  Dante  was  wont  to  stand  and  gaze  at 
that  wondrous  dome  which  Michel  Angelo  said  he  was 
unwilling  to  copy  and  unable  to  excel,  is  marked  by  an 


THEATRE    ALLEY.  225 

inscription  in  the  pavement.  Every  street  has  its  associa- 
tions that  appeal  to  your  love  of  the  beautiful  or  the  heroic. 
Walk  out  into  the  lively  streets  of  that  city  which  stands 
at  the  head  of  the  world's  civilization,  and  you  are  over- 
whelmed with  historic  associations.  You  seem  to  hear  the 
clatter  of  armed  heels  in  some  of  those  queer  old  alleys, 
and  the  vision  of  Godfrey  or  St.  Louis,  armed  for  the  holy 
war,  would  not  astonish  you.  The  dim  and  stately  halls  of 
the  palaces  are  eloquent  of  power,  and  you  almost  expect 
to  see  the  thin,  pale,  thoughtful  face  of  the  great  Richelieu 
at  every  corner.  Over  whole  districts,  rebellion,  and  an- 
archy, and  infidelity,  once  wrote  the  history  of  their  sway 
in  blood,  and  even  now,  the  names  of  the  streets,  as  you 
read  them,  seem  to  fill  you  with  terrible  mementoes. 

But  to  us,  Americans,  connected  as  we  are  with  England 
in  our  civilization  and  our  literature,  how  full  of  thrilling 
associations  is  London  !  From  Whitehall,  where  Puritan- 
ism damned  itself  by  the  murder  of  a  king,  to  Eastcheap, 
where  Mistress  Quickly  served  Sir  John  with  his  sherris- 
sack;  from  St.  Saviour's  Church,  where  Massinger  and 
Fletcher  lie  in  one  grave,  to  Milton's  tomb  in  St.  Giles's, 
Cripplegate,  there  is  hardly  a  street,  or  court,  or  lane,  or 
alley,  which  does  not  appeal  by  some  association  to  the 
student  of  English  history  or  literature.  He  perambulates 
the  Temple  Gardens  with  Chaucer ;  he  hears  the  partisans 
of  the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster,  as  they  profane  the 
silence  of  that  scholastic  spot ;  he  walks  Fleet  Street,  and 
disputes  in  Bolt  Court  with  Dr.  Johnson ;  he  smokes  in  the 
coffee-houses  of  Covent  Garden  with  Dryden  and  Pope, 
and  the  wits  of  their  day ;  he  makes  morning  calls  in 
Leicester  Square  and  its  neighbourhood,  on  Sir  Philip  Syd- 
ney, Hogarth,  Reynolds,  and  Newton  ;  he  buys  gloves  and 
stockings  at  Defoe's  shop  in  Cornhill ;  and  makes  excur- 
sions with   Dicky  Steele  out   to  Kensington,  to  see  Mr. 


226  AGUECHEEK. 

Addison.  Drury  Lane,  despite  its  gin,  and  vice,  and  squaU 
our,  has  its  associations.  The  old  theatre  is  filled  with 
them.  They  show  you,  in  the  smoky  green-room,  the 
chairs  which  once  were  occupied  by  Siddons  and  Kemble ; 
the  seat  of  Byron  by  the  fireside  in  the  days  of  his  trustee- 
ship ;  the  mirrors  in  which  so  many  dramatic  worthies 
viewed  themselves,  before  they  were  called  to  achieve  their 
greatest  triumphs. 

Every  where  you  find  men  acknowledging  in  their  ac- 
tions their  allegiance  to  this  great  natural  law.  Our  own 
city,  too,  has  its  associations.  Who  can  pass  by  that  ven- 
erable building  in  Union  Street,  which,  like  a  deaf  and 
dumb  beggar,  wears  a  tablet  of  its  age  upon  its  unsightly 
front,  without  recalling  some  of  the  events  that  have  taken 
place,  some  of  the  scenes  which  that  venerable  edifice  has 
looked  down  upon,  since  its  solid  timbers  were  jointed  in 
the  year  of  salvation  1685?  Who  can  enter  Faneuil  Hall 
without  a  quickening  of  his  pulse  ?  Who  can  walk  by  the 
old  Hancock  House,  and  not  look  up  at  it  as  if  he  expected 
to  see  old  John  (the  best  writer  on  the  subject  of  American 
independence)  standing  at  the  door  in  his  shad-bellied  coat, 
knee-breeches,  and  powdered  wig  ?  Who  can  look  at  the 
Old  South  Church  without  thinking  of  the  part  it  played  in 
the  revolution,  and  of  the  time  when  it  was  obliged  to 
yield  its  unwilling  horsepitality  to  the  British  cavalry? 
Boston  is  by  no  means  deficient  in  associations.  Go  to 
Brattle  Street,  to  Copp's  Hill,  to  Mount  Washington,  to 
Deer  Island,  —  though  it  must  be  acknowledged,  the  only 
association  connected  with  the  last-named  place  is  the  Prov- 
ident Association. 

If  there  be  a  fault  in  the  Yankee  character,  I  fear  it  is 
a  lack  of  sufficient  respect  for  the  memory  of  the  past. 
Nature  will  have  her  way  with  us,  however  we  may  try  to 
resist  her  and  trample  old  recollections  under  foot.     We  wop- 


THEATRE  ALLEY.  22T 

ship  prosperity  too  much  ;  and  the  wide,  straight  streets  of 
western  cities,  with  the  telegraph  posts  standing  like  sen- 
tinels on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalks,  and  a  general  odour  of 
pork-packing  and  new  houses  pervading  the  atmosphere, 
seem  to  our  acquisitive  sense  more  beautiful  than  the  sculp- 
tured arch,  the  moss-grown  tower,  the  quaint  gable,  and  all 
the  summer  fragrance  of  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries  or  the 
Unterdenlinden.  I  am  afraid  that  we  almost  deserve  to  be 
classed  with  those  who  (as  Mr.  Thackeray  says)  "  have  no 
reverence  except  for  prosperity,  and  no  eye  for  any  thing 
but  success." 

Many  are  kindled  into  enthusiasm  by  meditating  upon 
the  future  of  this  our  country,  —  "  the  newest  born  of  na- 
tions, the  latest  hope  of  mankind,"  —  but  for  myself  I  love 
better  to  dwell  on  the  sure  and  unalterable  past,  than  to 
speculate  upon  the  glories  of  the  coming  years.  While  I 
■was  young,  I  liked,  when  at  sea,  to  stand  on  the  top- 
gallant forecastle,  and  see  the  proud  ship  cut  her  way 
through  the  waves  that  playfully  covered  me  with  spray ; 
but  of  late  years  my  pleasure  has  been  to  lean  over  the 
taffrail  and  muse  upon  the  subsiding  foam  of  the  vessel's 
■wake.  The  recollection  even  of  storms  and  dangers  is  to 
me  more  grateful  than  the  most  joyful  anticipation  of  a  fair 
wind  and  the  expected  port.  With  these  feelings,  I  cannot 
help  being  moved  when  I  see  so  many  who  try  to  deaden 
their  natural  sensibility  to  old  associations.  When  the  old 
Province  House  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  estimable  Mr. 
Ordway,  I  congratulated  him  on  his  success,  but  I  mourned 
over  the  dark  fate  of  that  ancient  mansion.  I  respected  it 
even  in  its  fallen  state  as  an  inn,  —  for  it  retained  much  of 
its  old  dignity,  and  the  ghosts  of  Andros  and  his  predeces- 
sors seemed  to  brush  by  you  in  its  high  wainscoted  pas- 
sages and  on  its  broad  staircases  ;  but  it  did  seem  the  very 
ecstasy  of  sacrilege  to  transform  it  into  a  concert  room.    1 


228  AjOuecheek. 

rejoiced,  however,  a  few  years  since,  when  the  birthplace 
of  B.  Franklin,  in  Milk  Street,  was  distinguished  by  an  in- 
scription to  that  effect  in  letters  of  enduring  stone.  That 
was  a  concession  to  the  historic  associations  of  that  locality 
which  the  most  sanguine  could  hardly  have  expected  from 
the  satinetters  of  Milk  Street. 

But  I  am  forgetting  my  subject,  and  using  up  my  time 
and  ink  in  the  prolegomena.  My  philosophy  of  association 
received  a  severe  blow  last  week.  It  was  a  pleasant  day, 
and  I  hobbled  out  on  my  gouty  timbers  for  a  walk.  I 
wandered  into  Franklin  Place,  but  it  was  not  the  Franklin 
Place  of  my  youth.  The  rude  hand  of  public  improvement 
had  not  been  kept  even  from  that  row  of  houses  which, 
when  I  was  a  boy,  was  thought  an  ornament  to  our  city, 
and  was  dignified  with  the  name  of  the  Tontine  Buildings. 
Franklin  Place  looked  as  if  two  or  three  of  its  front  teeth 
had  been  knocked  out.  I  walked  on,  and  my  sorrow  and 
dismay  were  increased  to  find  that  the  last  vestige  of  Thea- 
tre Alley  had  disappeared.  It  was  bad  enough  when  the 
old  theatre  and  the  residence  of  the  Catholic  bishops  of 
Boston  were  swept  away:  I  still  clung  to  the  old  alley, 
and  hoped  that  it  would  not  pass  away  in  my  time  —  that 
before  the  old  locality  should  be  improved  into  what  the 
profane  vulgar  call  sightliness  and  respectability,  I  should 
(to  use  the  common  expressions  of  one  of  our  greatest  ora- 
tors, who,  in  almost  every  speech  and  oration  that  he  has 
liade  for  some  years  past,  has  given  a  sort  of  obituary 
notice  of  himself  before  closing)  have  been  "resting  in 
peace  beneath  the  green  sods  of  Mount  Auburn,"  or  should 
have  "  gone  down  to  the  silent  tomb." 

Do  not  laugh,  beloved  reader,  at  the  tenderness  of  my 
affection  for  that  old  place.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  ro- 
mance of  a  quiet  and  genial  kind  about  Theatre  Alley. 
As  I  first  remember  it.  commerce  had  not  encroached  upon 


THEATRE  ALLEY.  229 

its  precincts  ;  no  tall  warehouses  shut  out  the  light  from  its 
narrow  footway,  and  its  planks  were  unencumbered  by  any 
intrusive  bales  or  boxes.  Old  Dearborn's  scale  factory  was 
the  only  thing  to  remind  one  of  traffic  in  that  neighbourhood, 
which  struck  a  balance  with  fate  by  becoming  more  scaley 
than  before,  when  Dearborn  and  his  factory  passed  away. 
The  stage  door  of  the  theatre  was  in  the  alley,  and  the 
walk  from  thence,  through  Devonshire  Street,  to  the  Ex- 
change Coffee  House,  which  was  the  great  hotel  of  Boston 
at  that  time,  was  once  well  known  to  many  whose  names 
are  now  part  of  the  history  of  the  drama.  How  often  was 
I  repaid  for  walking  through  the  alley  by  the  satisfaction 
of  meeting  George  Frederick  Cooke,  the  elder  Kean,  Finn, 
Macready,  Booth,  Cooper,  Incledon,  old  Mathews,  or  the 
tall,  dignified  Conway  —  or  some  of  that  goodly  company 
that  made  Old  Drury  classical  to  the  play-goers  of  forty 
years  ago. 

The  two  posts  which  used  to  adorn  and  obstruct  the  en- 
trance to  the  alley  from  Franklin  Street,  when  they  were 
first  placed  there,  were  an  occasion  of  indignation  to  a  por- 
tion of  the  public,  and  of  anxiety  and  vexation  to  Mr.  Pow- 
ell, the  old  manager.  That  estimable  gentleman  had  often 
been  a  witness  to  the  terror  of  the  children  and  of  those  of 
the  weaker  sex  (I  hope  that  I  shall  be  forgiven  by  the 
"  Rev.  Antoinette  Brown "  for  using  such  an  adjective) 
who  sometimes  met  a  stray  horse  or  cow  in  the  alley ;  so 
he  placed  two  wooden  posts  just  beyond  the  theatre,  to  shut 
out  the  dreaded  bovine  intruders.  But  the  devout  Hi- 
bernians who  used  to  worship  at  the  church  in  Franklin 
Street  could  not  brook  the  placing  of  any  such  obstacles 
in  their  way  to  the  performance  of  their  religious  duties ; 
and  they  used  to  cut  the  posts  down  as  often  as  Mr.  Powell 
Bet  them  up,  until  he  took  refuge  in  the  resources  of  science, 
20 


230  AGUECHEEK. 

and  covered  and  bound  them  with  the  iron  bands,  which 
imprisoned  them  up  to  a  very  recent  period. 

Old  Mr.  S  tough  ton,  the  Spanish  consul,  used  to  occupy 
the  first  house  in  Franklin  Street  above  the  alley,  behind 
which  his  garden  ran  back  for  some  distance.  How  little 
that  worthy  gentleman  thought  that  his  tulip  beds  and  rose 
bushes  would  one  day  give  place  to  a  dry  goods  shop ! 
Seiior  Stoughton  was  one  of  the  urbanest  men  that  ever 
touched  a  hat.  If  he  met  you  in  the  morning,  the  memory 
of  his  bland  and  gracious  salutation  never  departed  from 
you  during  the  day,  and  seemed  to  render  your  sleep 
sweeter  at  night.  He  always  treated  you  as  if  you  were 
a  prince  in  disguise,  and  he  were  the  only  person  in  the 
secret  of  your  incognito.  He  enjoyed  the  intimate  friend- 
ship of  that  great  and  good  man,  Dr.  Cheverus,  the  first 
Bishop  of  Boston,  who  was  afterwards  transferred  to  the 
archiepiscopal  see  of  Bordeaux,  and  decorated  with  the 
dignity  of  a  Prince  of  the  Church.  He,  too,  often  walked 
through  the  old  alley.  The  children  always  welcomed  hig 
approach.  They  respected  Don  Stoughton  ;  Bishop  Chev- 
erus they  loved.  His  very  look  was  a  benediction,  and 
the  mere  glance  of  his  eye  was  a  Sursum  corda.  That 
calm,  wise,  benignant  face  always  had  a  smile  for  the  little 
ones  who  loved  the  neighbourhood  of  that  humble  Cathedral, 
and  the  pockets  of  that  benevolent  prelate  never  knew  a 
dearth  of  sugar  plums.  Years  after  that  happy  time,  a 
worthy  Protestant  minister  of  this  vicinity  —  who  was 
blessed  with  few  or  none  of  those  prejudices  against  "  Ro- 
manism "  which  are  nowadays  considered  a  necessary  part 
of  a  minister's  education  —  visited  Cardinal  Cheverus  in 
his  palace  at  Bordeaux,  and  found  him  keenly  alive  to 
every  thing  that  concerned  his  old  associations  and  friends 
in  Boston.  He  declared,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  with 
that  air  of  sincerity  that  marked  every  word  he  spoke,  that 


THEATRE   ALLEY.  231 

he  would  gladly  lay  down  the  burden  of  the  honour  and 
power  that  then  weighed  upon  him,  to  return  to  the  care  of 
his  little  New  England  flock.  Now,  Cardinal  Cheverus  was 
a  man  of  taste  and  of  kind  feelings,  and  I  will  warrant  you 
that  when  he  thought  of  Boston,  Theatre  Alley  was  in- 
cluded among  his  associations,  and  enjoyed  a  share  in  his 
affectionate  regrets. 

Mrs.  Grace  Dunlap's  little  shop  was  an  institution  which 
many  considered  to  be  coexistent  with  the  alley  itself.  It 
was  just  one  of  those  places  that  seem  in  perfect  harmony 
with  Theatre  Alley  as  it  was  twenty-five  years  ago.  It  was 
one  of  those  shops  that  always  seem  to  shun  the  madding 
crowd's  ignoble  strife,  and  seek  a  refuge  in  some  cool  seques- 
tered way.  The  snuff  and  tobacco  which  Mrs.  Dunlap 
used  to  dispense  were  of  the  best  quality,  and  she  numbered 
many  distinguished  persons  among  her  customers.  The 
author  of  the  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  was  often 
seen  there  replenishing  his  box,  and  exchanging  kind  cour- 
tesies with  the  fair-spoken  dealer  in  that  fragrant  article 
which  is  productive  of  so  many  bad  voices  and  so  much  real 
politeness  in  European  society.  Mrs.  Dunlap  herself  was 
a  study  for  an  artist.  Her  pleasant  face,  her  fair  complex- 
ion, her  quiet  manner,  her  white  cap,  with  its  gay  ribbons, 
rivalling  her  eyes  in  brightness,  were  all  in  perfect  keeping 
with  the  scrupulous  neatness  and  air  of  repose  that  always 
reigned  in  her  shop.  Her  parlour  was  as  comfortable  a  place 
as  you  would  wish  to  see  on  a  summer  or  a  winter  day.  It 
had  a  cheerful  English  look  that  I  always  loved.  The 
plants  in  the  windows,  the  bird  cage,  the  white  curtains,  the 
plain  furniture,  that  looked  as  if  you  might  use  it  without 
spoiling  it,  the  shining  andirons,  and  the  blazing  wood  fire, 
are  all  treasured  in  my  memory  of  Theatre  Alley  as  it  used 
to  be.  Mrs.  Dunlap's  customers  and  friends  (and  who 
could  help  being  her  friend  ?)  were  always  welcome  in  her 


232  AGUECHEEK. 

parlour,  and  there  were  few  who  did  not  enjoy  her  simple 
hospitality  more  than  that  pretentious  kind  which  sought  to 
lure  them  with  the  pomp  and  vanity  of  mirrors  and  gilding. 
Her  punch  was  a  work  of  art.  But  I  will  refrain  from 
pursuing  this  subject  further.  It  is  no  pleasure  to  me  to 
harrow  up  the  feelings  of  my  readers  by  dwelling  upon  the 
joys  of  their  prceteritos  annos. 

When  Mrs.  Dunlap  moved  out  of  the  alley,  its  glory  be- 
gan to  decline.  From  that  day  its  prestige  seemed  to  have 
gone.  Even  before  that  time  an  attempt  had  been  made  to 
rob  it  of  its  honoured  name.  Signs  were  put  up  at  each 
end  of  it  bearing  the  inscription,  "  Odeon  Avenue ;  "  but 
the  attempt  was  vain,  whether  it  proceeded  from  motives 
of  godliness  or  of  respectability  ;  nobody  ever  called  it  any 
thing  but  Theatre  Alley.  At  about  that  time  nearly  all  the 
buildings  left  in  it  were  devoted  to  the  philanthropic  object 
of  the  quenching  of  human  thirst.  We  read  that  St.  Paul 
took  courage  when  he  saw  three  taverns.  Who  can  esti- 
mate the  height  of  daring  to  which  the  Apostle  of  the  Gen- 
tiles might  have  risen  had  it  been  vouchsafed  to  him  to  walk 
through  Theatre  Alley.  One  of  the  most  frequented  resorts 
there  rejoiced  in  the  name  of  "  The  Rainbow  "  —  an  auspi- 
cious title,  certainly,  and  one  which  would  attract  those  who 
were  averse  to  the  cold  water  principle.  Some  of  the 
places  were  below  the  level  of  the  alley,  and  verified,  in  a 
striking  manner,  the  truth  of  Virgil's  words,  Facilis  de- 
scensus tavemi.  Among  certain  low  persons,  not  apprecia- 
tive of  its  poetic  associations,  the  alley  at  that  time  was 
nicknamed  "  Rum  Row ; "  and  he  was  considered  a  hero  who 
could  make  all  the  ports  in  the  passage  through,  and  carry 
his  topsails  when  he  reached  Franklin  Street.  Various 
eflPorts  were  made  at  that  period  to  bring  the  alley  into  dis- 
repute. Among  others,  a  sign  was  put  up  announcing  that 
it  was  dangerotts  passing  through  there  ;  I  fear  that  Father 


THEATRE    ALLEY.  233 

Mathew  would  have  thought  a  declaration  that  it  was  dan- 
gerous stopping,  to  have  been  nearer  the  truth.  But  the 
daily  deputations  from  the  Old  Colony  and  Worcester  Rail- 
ways could  not  be  kept  back  by  any  signs,  and  the  alley 
echoed  to  their  multitudinous  tramp  every  morning.  Mr. 
Choate,  too,  was  faithful  to  the  alley  through  good  and  evil 
report,  and  while  there  was  a  plank  left,  it  was  daily  pressed 
by  his  India  rubbers.  To  such  a  lover  of  nature  as  he, 
what  shall  take  the  place  of  a  morning  walk  thi'ough  Theatre 
Alley! 

But  venit  summa  dies  et  ineluctabile  tempus,  and  the  old 
alley  has  been  swept  away.  During  the  past  century  how 
many  thousands  have  passed  through  it !  how  many  anxious 
minds,  engrossed  with  schemes  of  commercial  enterprises, 
how  many  hearts  weary  with  defeat,  how  many  kind,  and 
generous,  and  great,  and  good  men,  who  have  passed  away 
from  earthly  existence,  like  the  alley  through  which  they 
walked !  But  while  I  mourn  over  the  loss,  I  would  not 
restore  it  if  I  could.  When  so  many  of  its  old  associations 
had  been  blotted  out ;  when  low  dram-drinking  dens  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  ancient,  quiet  dispensatories  of  good 
cheer ;  when  grim  and  gloomy  warehouses,  with  their  unso- 
cial, distrustful  iron  shutters,  had  made  the  warm  sunlight  a 
stranger  to  it,  — it  was  time  for  it  to  go.  It  was  better  that  it 
should  cease  to  exist,  than  continue  in  its  humiliation,  a  re- 
proach to  the  neighbourhood,  and  a  libel  upon  its  ancient 
and  honourable  fame. 
20  • 


THE   OLD   CATHEDRAL. 

In  many  people  who  have  been  abroad,  the  mere  mention 
of  the  old  city  of  Rouen  is  enough  to  kindle  an  enthusiasm. 
J£  you  would  know  why  this  is,  —  why  those  who  are  fa- 
miliar with  the  cathedrals  of  Cologne,  Milan,  Florence,  and 
the  basilicas  of  Rome,  have  yet  so  deep  a  feeling  about  the 
old  capital  of  Normandy,  —  the  true  answer  is,  that  Rouen, 
with  its  Gothic  glories  and  the  thrilling  history  of  the 
middle  ages  written  on  its  every  stone,  was  the  first  ancient 
city  that  they  saw,  and  made  the  deepest  impression  on 
their  minds.  They  had  left  the  stiff  and  unsympathetic 
respectability  of  Boston,  the  tiresome  cleanliness  of  Phila- 
delphia, or  the  ineffable  filth  of  New  York  behind  them ; 
or  perchance  they  had  been  emancipated  from  some  dreary 
western  town,  whose  wide,  straight,  unpaved  streets  seemed 
to  have  no  beginning  and  to  end  nowhere ;  whose  atmos- 
phere was  pervaded  with  an  odour  of  fresh  paint  and  new 
shingles,  and  whose  inhabitants  would  regard  fifty  years  as 
a  highly  respectable  antiquity,  —  and  had  come  steaming 
across  the  unquiet  Atlantic  to  Havre,  eager  to  see  an  old 
city.  A  short  railway  ride  carried  them  to  one  in  which 
they  could  not  turn  a  corner  without  seeing  something  to 
remind  them  of  what  they  had  seen  in  pictures  or  read  in 
books  about  the  middle  ages.  The  richly-carved  window 
frames,  the  grotesque  faces,  the  fanciful  devices,  the  pro- 
fusion of  ornament,  the  shrines  and  statues  of  the  saints  at 
the  comers  of  the  streets,  and  all  the  other  picturesque 
peculiarities  of  that  queer  old  city,  filled  them  with  wonder 
and  delight.    Those  fantastic  gables  that  seemed  to  be  lean- 

(234) 


THE  OLD  CATHEDRAL.  235 

ing  over  to  look  at  them,  inspired  them  with  a  respect 
which  all  the  architectural  wonders  and  artistic  trophies  of 
the  continent  are  powerless  to  disturb. 

It  was  not  my  fortune  thus  to  make  acquaintance  with 
Rouen.  I  had  several  times  tasted  the  pleasure  of  a  conti- 
nental sojourn.  The  streets  of  several  of  the  great  Euro- 
pean capitals  were  as  familiar  to  me  as  those  of  my  native 
city.  Yet  Rouen  captivated  me  with  a  charm  peculiarly 
its  own.  I  shall  not  easily  forget  the  delicious  summer  day 
in  which  I  left  Paris  for  a  short  visit  to  Rouen.  That  four 
hours'  ride  over  the  Western  Railway  of  France  was  full 
of  solid  enjoyment  for  every  sense.  The  high  cultivation 
of  that  fertile  and  unfenced  country  —  the  farmere  at  work 
in  the  sunny  broad-stretched  fields  —  the  hay-makers  piling 
up  their  fragrant  loads  —  the  chateau-like  farm  houses, 
looking  as  stately  as  if  they  had  strayed  out  of  the  city, 
and,  getting  lost,  had  thought  it  beneath  their  dignity  to  in- 
quire the  way  back  —  and  those  old  compactly  built  towns, 
in  each  of  which  the  houses  seem  to  have  nestled  together 
around  a  moss-grown  church  tower,  like  children  at  the 
knees  of  a  fond  mother,  —  made  up  a  scene  which  harmo- 
nized admirably  with  my  feelings  and  with  the  day,  "  so  calm, 
so  cool,  so  bright,  the  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky."  My 
fellow-passengers  shared  in  the  general  joy  which  the 
blithesomeness  of  nature  inspired.  We  all  chatted  merrily 
together,  and  a  German,  who  looked  about  as  lively  as 
Scott's  Commentaries  bound  in  dark  sheep-skin,  tried  to 
make  a  joke.  So  irresistible  was  the  contagion  of  cheerful- 
ness, that  an  Englishman,  who  sat  opposite  me,  so  far  forgot 
his  native  dignity,  as  to  volunteer  the  remark  that  it  was  a 
"  nice  day." 

At  last  we  began  to  consult  our  watches  and  time  tables, 
and,  afler  a  shrill  whistle  and  a  ride  through  a  long  tunnel,  I 
found  myself,  with  a  punctuality  by  which  you  might  set 


236  AOUECHEEK. 

jour  Frodsham,  in  the  station  at  Rouen.  I  obeyed  the  in- 
structions of  the  conductor  to  Messieurs  les  voyageurs  pour 
Houen  to  descendez,  and  was,  in  a  very  few  minutes,  walk- 
ing leisurely  through  narrow  and  winding  streets,  which  1 
used  to  think  existed  only  in  the  imaginations  of  novelists 
and  scene-painters.  I  say  walking,  but  the  fact  is,  I  did  not 
know  what  means  of  locomotion  I  employed  in  my  progress 
through  the  town.  My  eyes  and  mind  were  too  busy  to 
take  cognizance  of  any  inferior  matters.  My  astonishment 
and  delight  at  all  that  met  my  sight  was  not  so  great  as  my 
astonishment  and  delight  to  find  myself  astonished  and  de- 
lighted. I  had  seen  so  many  old  cities  that  I  had  no 
thought  of  getting  enthusiastic  about  Rouen,  until  I  found 
myself,  suddenly  in  a  state  of  mental  exaltation.  I  had 
visited  Rouen  as  many  people  visit  churches  and  galleries 
of  art  in  Italy  —  because  I  had  an  opportunity,  and  feared 
that  in  after  years  I  might  be  asked  if  I  had  ever  been 
there.  But,  if  a  dislike  to  acknowledge  my  ignorance  led 
me  to  Rouen,  it  was  a  very  different  sentiment  that  took 
possession  of  me  as  soon  as  I  caught  the  spirit  of  the  place. 
The  genius  of  the  past  seemed  to  inhabit  every  street  and 
alley  of  that  strange  city.  I  half  expected,  whenever  I 
heard  the  hoofs  of  horses,  to  find  myself  encompassed  by 
mailed  knights  ;  and  if  Joan  of  Arc,  with  her  sweet  maid- 
enly face  beaming  with  the  inspiration  of  religious  patriot- 
ism, had  galloped  by,  it  would  not  have  surprised  me  so 
much  as  it  did  to  realize  that  I  —  a  Yankee,  clad  in  a  gray 
travelling  suit,  with  an  umbrella  in  my  hand,  and  drafts 
G  a  limited  amount  on  Baring  Brothers  in  my  pocket  — 
ffas  moving  about  in  the  midst  of  such  scenes,  and  was 
•lot  arrested  and  hustled  out  of  the  way  as  a  profane  in- 
truder. 

Wandering  through  the  mouldy  streets  without  any  defi- 
nite idea  whither  they  led,  and  so  charmed  by  all  I  saw, 


THE  OLD   CATHEDRAL.  .  237 

that  I  did  not  care,  I  suddenly  turned  a  corner  and  sudden- 
ly found  myself  in  a  market-place  well  filled  with  figures, 
which  would  have  graced  a  similar  scene  in  any  opera- 
house,  and  facing  that  stupendous  cathedral  which  is  one  of 
the  glories  of  France.  I  do  not  know  how  to  talk  learned- 
ly about  architecture  ;  so  I  can  spare  you,  dear  reader,  any 
criticism  on  the  details  of  that  great  church.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  it  is  full  of  faults,  but  my  unskilful  eyes  rested 
only  on  its  beauties.  I  would  not  have  had  it  one  stroke  of 
the  chisel  less  ornate,  nor  one  shade  less  dingy.  I  could  not, 
indeed,  help  thinking  what  it  must  have  been  centuries  ago, 
when  it  was  in  all  the  glory  of  its  fresh  beauty ;  but  still  I 
rejoiced  that  it  was  reserved  for  me  to  behold  it  in  the  per- 
fected loveliness  and  richer  glory  of  its  decay.  Never  until 
then  did  I  fully  appreciate  the  truth  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  dec- 
laration, that  the  greatest  glory  of  a  building  is  not  in  its 
sculptures  or  in  its  gold,  but  in  its  age,  —  nor  did  I  ever 
before  perfectly  comprehend  his  eloquent  words  touch- 
ing that  mysterious  sympathy  which  we  feel  in  "  walls 
that  have  long  been  washed  by  the  passing  waves  of  hu- 
manity." 

After  lingering  for  a  while  before  the  sacred  edifice,  I 
entered,  and  stood  within  its  northern  aisle.  Arches  above 
arches,  supported  by  a  forest  of  massive  columns,  seemed 
to  be  climbing  up  as  if  they  aspired  to  reach  the  throne  of 
Him  whose  worship  was  daily  celebrated  there.  The  sun 
was  obscured  by  a  passing  cloud  as  I  entered,  and  that  made 
the  ancient  arches  seem  doubly  solemn.  The  stillness  that 
reigned  there  was  rendered  more  profound  by  the  occasional 
twitter  of  a  swallow  from  some  "jutty  frieze,"  or  "coigne 
of  vantage,"  high  up  above  my  head.  I  walked  half  way 
up  the  aisle,  and  stopped  on  hearing  voices  at  a  distance. 
As  I  stood  listening,  the  sun  uncovered  his  radiant  face,  and 
poured  his  golden  glory  through  the  great  western  windows 


288  AGUECHEEK. 

of  the  church,  bathing  the  whole  interior  with  a  prismatic 
brilliancy  which  made  me  wonder  at  my  presumption  in 
being  there.  At  the  same  moment  a  clear  tenor  voice  rang 
out  from  the  choir  as  if  the  sunbeams  had  called  it  into 
being,  giving  a  wonderful  expression  to  the  words  of  the 
Psalmist,  Dominus  illuminatio  mea  et  salus  mea ;  guem 
iimebo.  Then  came  a  full  burst  of  music  as  the  choir  took 
up  the  old  Gregorian  Chant  —  the  universal  language  of 
prayer  and  praise.  As  the  mute  groves  of  the  Academy 
reecho  still  the  wisdom  of  the  sages,  so  did  that  ancient 
church  people  my  mind  with  forms  and  scenes  of  an  age 
long  passed  away.  "  I  was  all  ear,"  and  those  solemn  strains 
seemed  to  be  endowed  with  the  accumulated  melody  of  the 
Misereres  and  Glorias  of  a  thousand  years. 

I  have  an  especial  affection  for  an  old  church,  and  I  pity 
with  all  my  heart  the  man  whom  the  silent  eloquence  of 
that  vast  cathedral  does  not  move.  The  very  birds  that 
build  their  nests  in  its  mouldering  towers  have  more  soul 
than  he.  Its  every  stone  is  a  sermon  on  the  transitoriness 
of  human  enterprise  and  the  vanity  of  worldly  hopes.  Be- 
neath its  pavement  lie  buried  hopes  and  ambitions  which 
have  left  no  memorial  but  in  the  unread  pages  of  forgotten 
historians.  Richard,  the  lion-hearted,  who  made  two  con- 
tinents ring  with  the  fame  of  his  valour,  and  yearned  for  new 
conquests,  was  obliged  at  last  to  content  himself  with  the 
dusty  dignity  and  obscurity  of  a  vault  beneath  those  lofty 
arches  which  stand  unmoved  amid  the  contentions  of  rival 
dynasties  and  the  insane  violence  of  republican  anarchy. 

But  it  was  not  merely  to  write  of  the  glories  of  Rouen 
and  its  churches,  that  I  took  up  ray  neglected  pen.  The 
old  cathedral,  of.  which  I  have  now  a  few  kind  words  to 
say,  does  not,  like  that  of  Rouen,  date  back  sixteen  centuries 
to  its  foundation  ;  neither  is  it  one  of  those  marvels  of  archi- 
tecture in  which  the  conscious  stone  seems  to  have  grown 


THE  OLD   CATHEDRAL.  239 

naturally  into  forms  of  enduring  beauty.  No  great  synods 
or  councils  have  been  held  within  its  walls ;  nor  have  its 
humble  aisles  resounded  daily  with  the  divine  office  chanted 
by  a  chapter  of  learned  and  pious  canons.  Indeed  it  bears 
little  in  its  external  appearance  that  would  raise  a  suspicion 
of  its  being  a  cathedral  at  all.  Yet  its  plain  interior,  its 
simple  altars,  and  its  unpretentious  episcopal  throne,  bear 
witness  to  the  abiding-place  of  that  power  which  is  radiated 
from  the  shrine  of  the  Prince  of  the  Apostles  —  as  unmis- 
takably as  if  it  were  encrusted  with  mosaics,  and  the  genius 
of  generations  of  great  masters  had  been  taxed  in  its 
adornment. 

The  Cathedral  of  Boston  is  the  last  relic  of  Franklin 
Street  as  I  delight  to  remember  it.  One  by  one,  the  theatre, 
the  residence  of  the  Catholic  bishops,  and  the  old  mansions 
that  bore  such  a  Berkeley  Square-y  look  of  respectability 
have  passed  away  ;  and  the  old  church  alone  remains.  Tall 
warehouses  look  down  upon  it,  as  if  it  were  an  intruder 
there,  and  the  triumphal  car  of  traffic  makes  its  old  walls 
tremble  and  disturbs  the  devotion  of  its  worshippers.  An 
irreverent  punster  ventured  a  few  months  since  to  suggest 
that,  out  of  regard  to  its  new  associations,  it  ought  to  be  re- 
dedicated  under  the  invocation  of  St.  Casimir,  and  to  be 
enlarged  by  the  addition  of  a  chapel  built  in  honor  of  St 

Fantaleone. 

Quid  non  mortalia  pectora  cogis, 
Joci  sacra  fames  I 

But  it  is  well  that  it  should  follow  the  buildings  with  which 
it  held  companionship  through  so  many  quiet  years.  The 
charm  of  the  old  street  has  been  destroyed,  and  the  sooner 
the  last  monument  of  its  former  state  is  removed  the  better 
it  will  be.  The  land  on  which  it  stands  formerly  belonged 
to  the  Boston  Theatre  corporation.  It  was  transferred  to 
its  present  proprietorship  in  the  last  week  of  the  last  cen 


240  AOUECHEEK. 

tury,  and  the  first  Catholic  church  in  New  England  was 
erected  upon  it.  That  church  (enlarged  considerably  by 
the  late  Bishop  Fen  wick)  is  the  one  which  still  stands,  and 
towards  which  I  feel  a  veneration  similar  in  kind  to  that 
inspired  by  the  cathedrals  of  the  old  world.  Even  now  I 
remember  with  pleasure  how  I  used  to  enjoy  an  occasional 
visit  to  that  strange  place  in  my  boyhood.  "  Logic  made 
easy  "  and  "  Geometry  for  Infant  Schools  "  were  things  un- 
known in  my  young  days.  I  was  weaned  from  the  Primer 
and  Spelling-book  with  the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments, 
and  the  works  of  Defoe,  Goldsmith,  Addison,  and  Shake- 
speare. Therefore  the  romantic  instinct  was  not  entirely 
crushed  out  of  my  youthful  heart,  and  it  would  be  difficult, 
dear  reader,  for  you  to  conceive  how  much  I  found  to  feed 
h  on,  within  those  plain  brick  walls. 

The  lamp  which  used  to  burn  constantly  before  the  altar, 
until  an  anxiety  for  "improvement"  removed  it  out  of 
sight  behind  the  pulpit,  filled  me  with  an  indescribable  awe. 
I  was  ignorant  of  its  meaning,  and  for  years  was  unaware 
that  my  childish  reverence  for  its  mild  flicker  was  a  blind 
homage  to  one  of  the  profoundest  mysteries  of  the  Catholic 
faith.  I  remember  to  this  day  the  satisfaction  I  took  in 
the  lighting  of  those  tall  candles,  and  what  a  halo  of  myste- 
rious dignity  surrounded  even  the  surpliced  boys  grouped 
around  that  altar.  That  strange  ceremonial  surpassed  my 
comprehension.  The  Latin,  as  I  heard  it  sung  there,  was 
pronounced  so  differently  from  what  I  had  been  taught  at 
school,  that  it  was  all  Greek  to  me.  Yet,  when  I  saw  the 
devotion  of  that  congregation,  and  the  pious  zeal  of  the 
devoted  clergymen  who  built  that  church,  I  could  not  call 
their  worship  "  mummery,"  nor  join  in  the  irreverent  laugh- 
ter of  my  comrades  at  those  ancient  rites.  There  was  some- 
thing about  them  that  seemed  to  fill  up  my  ideal  of  worship 
—  a  soothing  and  consoling  influence  which  I  found  no- 
where else. 


THE  OLD   CATHEDRAL.  241 

I  never  entertained  the  vulgar  notion  of  a  Catholic  priest. 
Of  course  my  education  led  me  to  regard  the  dogmas  of 
the  Roman  Church  with  any  thing  but  a  friendly  eye  ;  but 
my  ideas  of  the  clergy  of  that  Church  were  not  influenced 
by  popular  prejudice.  I  was  always  willing  to  believe  that 
Vincent  de  Paul,  and  Charles  Borromeo,  and  Fenelon  were 
what  they  were,  in  consequence  of  their  religion,  rather  than 
in  spite  of  it,  as  some  people,  who  make  pretensions  to  lib- 
erality, would  fain  persuade  us.  When  I  recall  the  self- 
denying  lives  of  the  two  founders  of  the  Catholic  Church  in 
Boston,  —  Matignon  and  Cheverus,  —  I  wonder  that  the 
influence  of  their  virtues  has  not  extended  even  to  the  pres- 
ent day,  to  soften  prejudice  and  do  away  with  irreligious 
animosity.  They  were  regarded  with  distrust,  if  not  with 
hatred,  when  they  first  came  among  us  to  take  charge  of 
that  humble  flock ;  but  their  devotedness,  joined  with  great 
acquirements  and  rare  personal  worth,  overcame  even  the 
force  of  the  great  Protestant  tradition  of  enmity  towards 
their  office.  Protestant  admiration  kept  pace  with  Catholic 
love  and  veneration  in  their  regard,  and  when  they  built  the 
church  which  is  now  so  near  the  term  of  its  existence,  there 
were  few  wealthy  Protestants  in  Boston  who  did  not  esteem 
it  a  privilege  to  aid  them  with  liberal  contributions.  The 
first  subscription  paper  for  its  erection  was  headed  by  the 
illustrious  and  venerable  name  of  John  Adams,  the  suc- 
cessor of  "Washington  in  the  presidency  of  the  United  States. 

The  memory  of  the  first  Bishop  of  Boston,  Dr.  Cheverus, 
is  (for  most  Bostonians  of  my  age)  the  most  precious  asso- 
ciation connected  with  the  Cathedral.  He  was  endeared  to 
the  people  of  this  city  by  ten  years  of  unselfish  exertion  in 
the  duties  of  a  missionary  priest,  before  he  was  elevated  to 
the  dignity  of  the  episcopate.  His  unwillingness  to  receive 
the  proffered  mitre  was  as  characteristic  of  his  modest  and 
humble  spirit,  as  the  meekness  with  which  he  bore  his 
21 


242  AGUECHEEK. 

faculties  when  the  burden  of  that  responsibility  was  forced 
upon  him.  Ilis  "  episcopal  palace,"  as  he  used  facetiously 
to  term  his  small  and  scantily -furnished  dweUing,  which  was 
contiguous  to  the  rear  of  the  church,  was  the  resort  of  all 
classes  of  the  community.  His  simplicity  of  manner  and 
ingenuous  affability  won  all  hearts.  The  needy  and  opulent, 
the  learned  and  illiterate,  the  prosperous  merchant  and  the 
Indians  in  the  unknown  wilds  of  Maine,  found  in  him  a 
father  and  a  friend.  Children  used  to  run  after  him  as  he 
walked  down  Franklin  Place,  delighted  to  receive  a  smile 
and  a  kind  word  from  one  whose  personal  presence  was  like 
a  benediction. 

His  face  was  the  index  of  a  pure  heart  and  a  great  mind. 
It  was  impossible  to  look  at  him  without  recalling  that  fine 
stanza  of  the  old  poet,  — 

"  A  sweete  attractive  kind  of  grace, 
A  full  assurance  given  by  lookes, 
Continuall  comfort  in  a  face, 
The  lineaments  pf  Gospel  bookes  ;  — 
I  trow  that  countenance  cannot  lie 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in  the  eye." 

One  of  the  ancient  Hebrew  prophets,  in  describing  the 
glories  of  the  millennial  period,  tells  us  that  upon  the  bells 
of  the  horses  shall  be  the  words.  Holiness  unto  the  Lord  — 
a  prophecy  which  always  reminded  me  of  Cheverus ;  for 
that  divine  inscription  seemed  to  have  been  wi'itten  all  over 
his  benign  countenance  as  with  the  luminous  pen  of  the  rapt 
evangelist  in  Patmos. 

But  Bishop  Cheverus  was  not  merely  a  good  man  —  he 
was  a  great  man.  He  did  not  court  the  society  of  the 
learned,  for  his  line  of  duty  lay  among  the  poor ;  but,  even 
in  that  humble  sphere,  his  talents  shone  out  brightly,  and 
won  the  respect  even  of  those  who  had  the  least  sympathy 


THE  OLD  CATHEDRAL.  243 

with  the  Church  to  which  his  every  energy  was  devoted. 
Boston  valued  him  highly  ;  but  few  of  her  citizens  thought, 
as  they  saw  him  bound  on  some  errand  of  mercy  through 
her  streets,  that  France  envied  them  the  possession  of  such 
a  prelate,  that  the  peerage  of  the  old  monarchy  was  thought 
to  need  his  virtuous  presence,  and  that  the  scarlet  dignity 
of  a  Prince  of  the  Church  was  in  reserve  for  that  meek  and 
self-sacrificing  servant  of  the  poor.  Had  he  been  gifted 
with  prophetic  vision,  his  humility  would  have  had  much  to 
sulFer,  and  his  life  would  have  been  made  unhappy,  by  the 
thought  of  coming  power  and  honour.  He  had  given 
the  best  part  of  his  life  to  Boston,  and  here  he  wished  to 
die.  He  had  buried  his  friend  and  fellow-labourer,  Di'. 
Matignon,  in  the  Church  of  St.  Augustine  at  South  Boston, 
and  when  he  placed  the  mural  tablet  over  the  tomb  of  that 
venerable  priest,  he  left  a  space  for  his  own  name,  and  ex- 
pressed the  hope  that,  as  they  had  lived  together  harmoni- 
ously for  so  many  years,  they  might  not  in  death  be  sepa- 
rated. It  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  more  than  two  hundred 
Protestants  remonstrating  against  the  translation  of  a 
Catholic  bishop  from  their  city,  and  speaking  of  him  in 
such  terms  as  these :  "  We  hold  him  to  be  a  blessing  and 
a  treasure  in  our  social  community,  which  we  cannot  part 
with,  and  which,  without  injustice  to  any  man,  we  may 
a£Srm,  if  withdrawn  from  us,  can  never  be  replaced."  And 
when  he  distributed  all  that  he  possessed  among  his  clergy, 
his  personal  friends  and  the  poor,  and  left  Boston  as  poor 
as  he  had  entered  it,  with  the  single  trunk  that  contained 
his  clothes  when  he  arrived,  twenty-seven  years  before,  — 
public  admiration  outran  the  power  of  language.  Doctrinal 
differences  were  forgotten.  Three  hundred  carriages  and 
other  vehicles  escorted  him  several  miles  on  the  road  to 
New  York,  where  he  was  to  embark. 


244 


AGUECHEEK. 


Of  his  life  as  Bishop  of  Montauban,  Archbishop  of  Bor- 
deaux, a  Peer  of  France,  and  a  Cardinal,  there  is  not  space 
for  me  to  speak.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  amid  all  the  dignities 
to  which  he  was  successively  promoted,  he  lived  as  simply 
and  unostentatiously  as  when  he  dwelt  in  Franklin  Street ; 
and  that  in  time  of  pestilence  and  public  distress  he  showed 
the  same  unbounded  charity  which  caused  his  departure 
from  Boston  to  be  considered  a  public  calamity.  To  the 
last  day  of  his  life  he  maintained  his  interest  in  his  American 
home,  and  would  gladly  have  relinquished  all  his  dignities 
to  return  and  minister  at  the  altar  of  the  church  he  here 
erected.  Throughout  France  he  was  honoured  and  beloved, 
even  as  he  had  been  in  the  metropolis  of  New  England,  and 
a  nation  sorrowed  at  his  death.  Full  as  his  life  was  of  good 
works,  it  was  not  in  his  eloquence,  nor  his  learning,  nor  in 
the  pious  and  charitable  enterprises  which  he  originated, 
that  the  glory  of  Cardinal  Cheverus  consisted ;  it  was  in 
the  simplicity  of  his  character  and  the  daily  beauty  of 
his  life :  — 

"  His  thoughts  were  as  a  pyramid  up-piled, 
On  whose  far  top  an  angel  stood  and  smiled, 
Yet  in  his  heart  he  was  a  little  child." 

The  gentle  and  benevolent  spirit  of  that  illustrious  prel- 
ate has  never  departed  from  the  church  he  built.  When 
Channing  died,  and  was  buried  from  the  church  which  his 
eloquence  had  made  famous,  the  successor  of  Cheverus 
caused  the  bell  of  the  neighbouring  Cathedral  to  be  tolled, 
that  it  might  not  seem  as  if  the  Catholics  had  forgotten  the 
friendly  relations  which  had  existed  between  the  great 
Unitarian  preacher  and  their  first  bishop.  And  when  the 
good  Bishop  Fenwick  was  borne  from  the  old  Cathedral, 
with  all  the  pomp  of  pontifical  obsequies,  his  courtesy  and 


THE  OLD   CATHEDRAL.  245 

regard  for  Dr.  Channing's  memory  was  not  forgotten,  and 
the  bell  which  was  so  lately  removed  from  the  tower,  where 
it  had  swung  for  half  a  century,  joined  with  that  of  the 
Cathedral  in  giving  expression  to  the  general  sorrow,  and 
proved  that  no  dogmatic  differences  had  disturbed  the  kindly 
spirit  which  Channing  inculcated  and  had  exemplified  in 
his  blameless  life. 

Of  the  later  history  of  the  Cathedral  of  the  Holy  Cross 
I  may  not  speak.  My  youthful  respect  for  it  has  in  no 
degree  diminished,  and  I  shall  always  consider  it  a  substan- 
tial refutation  of  the  old  apothegm,  "  Familiarity  breeds 
contempt."  There  are,  I  doubt  not,  those  who  regard  that 
old  edifice  with  deeper  feelings  than  mine.  Who  can 
estimate  the  affection  and  veneration  in  which  it  is  held  by 
those  who  may  there  have  found  an  asylum  from  harassing 
doubts,  who  have  received  from  that  font  the  joy  of  a  reno- 
vated heart,  and  from  that  altar  the  divine  gift  which  is  at 
the  same  time  a  consolation  for  past  sorrows  and  a  renewal 
of  strength  to  tread  the  rough  path  of  life  ! 

I  am  told  that  it  will  not  probably  be  long  before  the 
glittering  cross  which  the  pure-hearted  Cheverus  placed 
upon  the  old  church  will  be  removed,  and  the  demolition 
of  his  only  monument  in  Boston  will  be  effected.  PermU 
me  to  conclude  these  reminiscences  with  the  expression  of 
the  hope  that  the  new  Cathedral  of  Boston  will  be  an  edifice 
worthy  of  this  wealthy  city,  and  that  it  may  contain  som» 
fitting  memorial  of  the  remarkable  man  who  exercised  hii 
beneficent  apostolate  among  us  during  more  than  a  quartei 
of  a  century.  The  virtues  which  merited  the  gratitude  of 
the  poor  and  the  highest  honours  which  pontiffs  and  kingt 
can  bestow,  ought  not  to  go  uncommemorated  in  the  citj 
which  witnessed  their  development,  and  never  hesitated  t» 
give  expression  to  its  love  and  veneration  for  their  possessor. 
21* 


246  AOUECHEEK. 

Bat  whatever  the  new  Cathedral  may  be, —  however  glorious 
the  skill  of  the  architect,  the  sculptor,  and  the  painter  may 
render  it,  —  there  are  those  in  whose  affections  it  will  never 
be  able  to  replace  the  little  unpretending  church  which 
Cheverus  built,  and  which  the  remembrance  of  his  saintly 
life  has  embalmed  in  all  their  hearts. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  SUFFERING. 

Human  suffering  is  an  old  and  favourite  theme.  From 
the  time  when  the  woes  of  Job  assumed  an  epic  grandeur 
of  form,  and  the  adventures  and  pains  of  Philoctetes  in- 
spired the  tragic  muse  of  Sophocles,  down  to  the  publica- 
tion of  the  last  number  of  the  London  Lancet,  there  would 
seem  to  have  been  no  subject  so  attractive  as  the  sufferings 
of  poor  humanity.  Literature  is  filled  with  their  recital, 
and,  if  books  were  gifted  with  a  vocal  power,  every  library 
would  resound  with  wailings.  Ask  your  neighbour  Jenkins, 
who  overtakes  you  on  your  way  to  your  office,  how  he  is, 
and  it  is  ten  chances  to  one  that  he  will  entertain  you  with 
an  account  of  his  influenza  or  his  rheumatism.  It  is  a  sub- 
ject, too,  which  age  cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale.  It 
knows  none  of  the  changes  which  will  at  times  dwarf  or 
keep  out  of  sight  all  other  themes.  The  weather,  which 
forms  the  raw  material  of  so  much  conversation,  is  nothing 
compared  to  it.  There  is  nothing  which  men  find  so  much 
pleasure  in  talking  about  as  their  own  ailments.  The  late 
Mr.  "Webster,  of  Marshfield,  was  once  stopping  for  a  single 
day  in  a  western  city,  where  he  had  never  been  before,  and 
where  there  was  a  natural  curiosity  among  many  of  the  in- 
habitants to  see  the  Defender  of  the  Constitution.  He 
therefore  set  apart  two  hours  before  the  time  of  his  depart- 
ure for  the  reception  of  such  persons  as  might  seek  the 
honour  of  a  shake  of  his  hand.  The  reception  took  place  in 
one  of  the  parlours  of  a  hotel,  the  crowd  filing  in  at  one 
door,  being  introduced  by  the  mayor,  and  making  their  exit 
by  another.     In  the  course  of  the  proceedings,  a  little  man, 

(247) 


248  AGUECHEEK. 

with  a  lustrous  beaver  in  one  hand  and  a  gold-headed  cane 
in  the  other,  and  whose  personal  apparel  appeared  to  have 
been  got  up  (as  old  Pelby  would  have  said)  without  the 
slightest  regard  to  expense,  and  on  a  scale  of  unparalleled 
splendour,  walked  forward,  and  was  presented  by  the  mayoi 
as  "  Mr.  Smith,  one  of  our  most  eminent  steamboat  build- 
ers  and  leading  citizens."  Mr.  Webster's  large,  thoughtful 
serene  eyes  seemed  to  be  completely  filled  by  the  result  of 
the  combined  efforts  of  the  linen-draper,  the  tailor,  and  th« 
jeweller,  that  confronted  him,  and  his  deep  voice  made  an* 
swer  — "  Mr.  Smith,  I  am  happy  to  see  you.  I  hope  you 
are  well,  sir."  "  Thank  you,  thir,"  said  the  leading  citizen, 
"  I  am  not  very  well.  I  wath  tho  unfortunate  ath  to  take 
cold  yethterday  by  thitting  in  a  draught.  Very  unpleath- 
ant,  Mr.  Webthter,  to  have  a  cold !  But  Mrs.  Smith  thaya 
that  the  thinks  that  if  I  put  my  feet  in  thome  warm  water 
to-night,  and  take  thomething  warm  to  drink  on  going  to 
bed,  that  I  may  get  over  it.  I  thertainly  hope  tho,  for  it 
really  givth  me  the  headache,  and  I  can't  thmell  at  all." 
Mr.  Webster  expressed  a  warm  interest  in  Mr.  Smith's 
case,  and  a  hope  that  Mrs.  Smith's  simple  medical  treat- 
ment would  result  beneficially,  and  then  turned  with  undis- 
turbed gravity  to  the  next  citizen,  who,  with  some  six  hun- 
dred others,  was  anxiously  waiting  his  turn.  We  are  all 
like  Mr.  Smith.  We  laugh,  it  is  true,  at  his  affectations, 
but  we  are  as  likely  to  force  our  petty  ailments  upon  a  mind 
burdened  with  the  welfare  of  a  nation ;  and  we  never  tire 
of  hearing  ourselves  talk  about  our  varying  symptoms. 
Politeness  may  hold  us  back  from  importuning  our  friends 
with  the  diagnosis  of  our  case,  but  our  self-centred  hearts 
are  all  alike,  and  a  cold  in  the  head  will  awaken  more  feel- 
ing in  its  victim  than  the  recital  of  all  the  horrors  of  the 
hospital  of  Scutari.  Nothing  can  equal  the  heroic  fortitude 
with  which  we  bear  the  sufferings  of  our  fellows,  or  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OP    SUFFERING.  249 

eaintliness  of  our  pious  resignation  and  acquiescence  in  the 
wisdom  of  the  divine  decrees  when  our  friends  are  bending 
under  their  afflictive  stroke. 

I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  about  suffering.  Do  not  be 
afraid,  beloved  reader,  that  I  am  going  to  carry  you  into 
rooms  from  which  the  light  is  excluded,  and  which  are 
strangers  to  any  sound  above  a  whisper,  or  the  casual  move- 
ment of  some  of  the  phials  ou  the  mantel-piece.  I  am 
going  to  speak  of  suffering  in  its  strict  sense  of  pain,  —  bod- 
ily pain,  —  and  sickness  is  not  necessarily  accompanied  with 
pain.  I  cannot  regard  your  sick  man  as  a  real  sufferer. 
His  fever  rages,  and  he  tosses  from  side  to  side  as  if  he 
were  suffering  punishment  with  Dives ;  but  from  the  inco- 
herent phrases  which  escape  from  his  parched  lips,  you 
learn  that  his  other  self  is  rapt  in  the  blissfulness  that  en- 
folds Lazarus.  He  prattles  childishly  of  other  lands  and 
scenes  —  he  thinks  himself  surrounded  by  friends  whose 
faces  once  were  grateful  to  his  sight,  but  who  long  since  fell 
before  the  power  with  which  he  is  struggling  —  or  he  fancies 
himself  metamorphosed  into  a  favourite  character  in  some 
pleasant  book  which  he  has  lately  read.  After  a  time  he 
wakes  forth  from  his  delirium,  but  he  cannot  even  then  be 
called  a  sufferer.  On  the  contrary,  his  situation,  even 
while  he  is  so  entirely  dependent  upon  those  around  him,  is 
really  the  most  independent  one  in  the  world.  His  lightesl 
wish  is  cared  for  as  if  his  life  were  the  price  of  its  non- 
accomplishment.  All  his  friends  and  kinsmen,  and  neighbours 
whom  he  hardly  knows  by  sight,  vie  with  each  other  in  try. 
ing  to  keep  pace  with  his  returning  appetite.  He  is  the 
absolute  monarch  of  all  he  surveys.  There  is  no  one  to 
dispute  his  reign.  The  crown  of  convalescence  is  the  only 
one  which  does  not  make  the  head  that  wears  it  uneasy.  He 
has  nothing  to  do  but  to  satisfy  his  longings  for  niceties,  to 
listen  to  kind  words  from  dear  friends,  to  sleep  when  he 


SoO  AGUECHEEK. 

feels  like  it,"  and  to  get  better.  I  am  afraid  that  we  are  all 
so  selfish  and  so  enslaved  by  our  appetites,  that  the  period 
of  convalescence  is  the  pleasantest  part  of  life  to  most 
of  us. 

Therefore  I  shut  out  common  sickness,  fevers,  and  the 
like,  from  any  share  in  my  observations  on  suffering.  If 
you  ask  me  what  I  should  be  willing  to  consider  real  bodily 
pain,  —  since  I  am  unwilling  to  allow  that  ordinary  sick  men 
participate  in  it,  —  I  should  say  that  you  can  find  it  in  a 
good,  old-fashioned  attack  of  rheumatism  or  gout.  I  think  it 
was  Horace  Walpole  who  said  that  these  two  complaints  were 
very  much  alike,  the  difference  between  them  being  this : 
that  rheumatism  was  like  putting  your  hand  or  foot  into  a 
vice,  and  screwing  it  up  as  tight  as  you  possibly  can,  and 
gout  was  the  same  thing,  only  you  give  the  screw  one  more 
turn.  It  is  no  flattery  to  speak  of  the  victim  to  either  of 
these  disorders  as  a  sufferer.  The  rheumatic  gout  is  a 
complaint  which  possesses  all  th6  advantages  and  peculiari- 
ties which  its  compound  title  denotes.  It  unites  in  itself  all 
the  potentiality  of  gout  and  all  the  ubiquity  of  rheumatism. 
Its  characteristics  have  been  impressed  upon  me  in  a  man- 
ner that  sets  at  defiance  that  weakness  of  memory  which 
generally  accompanies  old  age.  Sharp  experience,  increas- 
ing in  sharpness  as  my  years  pile  up,  makes  that  com- 
plaint a  speciality  among  my  acquirements.  These  sting- 
ing, burning,  cutting  pains  deserve  the  superlative  case, 
if  any  thing  does.  Language  (that  habitual  bankrupt)  is 
reduced  to  a  most  abject  state  when  called  upon  to  describe 
rheumatic  gout.  The  disease  does  not  seem  to  feel  satisfied 
with  poisoning  your  blood  by  its  aciduousness,  it  makes  your 
flesh  tingle  and  burn,  and,  like-  the  late  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, does  not  rest  until  it  has  conquered  the  bony  part.  The 
very  bone  seems  to  be  crumbling  wherever  the  demon  of 
gout  pinches.     There   are   moments   in  the  life  of  every 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF   SUFFERINO.  251 

gouty  man  when  it  seems  as  if  nothing  would  be  so  refresh- 
ing as  to  indulge  for  a  while  in  the  use  of  that  energetic 
diction,  savouring  more  of  strength  than  of  righteousness, 
which  is  common  among  cavalry  troops  and  gentlemen  of 
the  seafaring  pi:ofession,  but  which,  in  society,  is  considered 
to  be  a  little  in  advance  of  the  prejudices  of  the  age.  No 
higher  encomium  could  be  passed  upon  a  gouty  man  than 
to  say  that,  with  all  his  torments,  he  never  swore,  and  was 
seldom  petulant.  But  there  are  very  few  whose  merits 
deserve  this  canonization. 

But  gout,  with  all  its  pains,  has  yet  its  redeeming  char- 
acteristics. That  great  law  of  compensation  which  reduces 
the  inequalities  of  our  lot,  and  makes  Brown,  Jones,  and 
Robinson  come  out  about  even  in  the  long  run,  is  not  in- 
operative here.  The  gout  is  painful,  but  its  respectability 
is  unquestionable.  It  is  the  disease  of  a  gentleman.  It  is 
a  certificate  of  good  birth  more  satisfactory  than  any  which 
the  Heralds'  College  or  the  Genealogical  Association  can 
furnish.  It  is  but  right,  too,  that  the  man  who  can  date 
back  his  family  history  to  Plymouth  or  Jamestown  in  this 
country,  and  to  Runnymede  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlan- 
tic, should  pay  something  for  such  a  privilege.  A  man 
may  never  have  indulged  in  "  the  sweet  poison  of  the  Tus- 
can grape  "  himself,  but  can  he  reasonably  complain  of  an 
incontrovertible  testimony  to  the  fact  that  his  ancestors  lived 
well !  Chacun  a  son  gout :  for  myself,  I  should  much 
prefer  my  honoured  family  name,  with  all  its  associations 
with  the  brave  knight  who  made  it  famous,  accompanied  by 
the  only  possession  which  I  have  received  by  hereditary 
right,  to  the  most  unequivocal  state  of  health  burdened 
with  such  a  name  as  Jinkins. 

Mentally  and  spiritually,  the  gout  is  far  from  being  a  use- 
less institution.  It  ripens  a  man's  judgment,  and  prunes 
away  the  radical  tendencies  of  his  nature.     It  will  convert 


252  AGUECHEEK. 

the  wildest  of  revolutionists  into  the  stifFest  of  conservatives. 
It  teaches  a  man  to  look  at  things  as  tliey  really  are,  and 
not  as  enthusiasm  would  have  them  represented.  No  gouty- 
man  would  ever  look  to  the  New  York  Tribune  as  the  ex- 
ponent of  his  religious  or  political  creed.  His  complaint 
has  a  positive  character,  and  it  makes  him  earnest  to  find 
something  positive  in  religion  and  politics.  The  negative- 
ness  of  radicalism  tires  him.  He  deprecates  every  thing 
like  change.  He  thinks  that  religion,  and  society,  and  gov- 
ernment were  established  for  some  better  end  than  to  afford 
a  perpetual  employment  to  the  destructive  powers  of  vision- 
ary reformers  and  professional  philanthropists.  He  longs 
to  find  constancy  and  stability  in  something  besides  his  in- 
exorable disorder. 

There  is  another  disorder  which  people  generally  seem  to 
consider  a  very  trifling  affair,  but  which  any  one  who  knows 
it  will  allow  to  ■  be  productive  of  the  most  unmistakable 
pain.  I  refer  to  neuralgia.  Who  pities  a  neuralgic  person  ? 
Any  healthy  man,  when  asked  about  it,  will  answer  in  his 
ignorance  that  it  is  "  only  a  headache."  But  ask  the  school 
teacher,  whose  throbbing  head  seems  to  be  beating  time  to 
the  ceaseless  muttering  and  whispering  of  her  scholars  as 
they  bend  over  their  tasks — ask  the  student,  whose  thoughts, 
like  undisciplined  soldiers,  will  not  fall  into  the  ranks,  and 
whose  head  seems  to  be  occupied  by  a  steam  engine  of 
enormous  power,  running  at  the  highest  rate  of  pressure, 
with  the  driver  sitting  on  the  safety-valve  —  ask  them 
whether  neuralgia  is  "  only  a  headache  "  !  Who  can  tell 
the  cause  of  the  prevalence  of  this  scourge  ?  whether  it 
proceeds  from  our  houses  overheated  with  intolerable 
furnaces  and  anthracite  coal,  or  from  our  treacherous 
ai;l  unconstant  climate  so  forcibly  described  by  Choate: 
"  Cold  to-day  ;  hot  to-morrow  ;  mercury  at  eighty  degrees  in 
the  morning,  with  wind  at  south-west ;  and  in  three  hours 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF   SUFFERING.  258 

more  a  sea  turn,  with  wind  at  east,  a  thick  fog  from  the  very 
bottom  of  the  ocean,  and  a  fall  of  forty  degrees  of  Fahren- 
heit." The  uncertainty  which  seems  to  attend  all  human 
science,  and  the  science  of  medicine  in  particular,  envelops 
this  mysterious  disease,  and  thousands  of  us  are  left  to  suf- 
fer and  wonder  what  the  matter  is. 

But  all  of  these  pains,  gouty,  neuralgic,  and  otherwise, 
have  yet  their  sweet  uses,  and  like  the  vile  reptile  Shake- 
speare tells  us  of,  are  adorned  with  a  precious  jewel.  The 
old  Roman  emperors  in  the  hour  of  triumph  used  to  have 
a  slave  stand  behind  them  to  whisper  in  their  ear,  from  time 
to  time,  the  unwelcome  but  salutary  truth  that  they  were 
but  mortal  men.  Even  now,  on  the  occasion  of  the  en- 
thronement of  a  Pope,  a  lighted  candle  is  applied  to  a 
bunch  of  flax  fixed  upon  a  staff,  and  as  the  smoke  dissipates 
itself  into  thin  air  before  the  newly-crowned  Pontiff,  sur- 
rounded as  he  is  by  all  the  emblems  of  religion  and  all  the 
insignia  and  pomp  of  worldly  power,  the  same  great  truth 
of  the  perishableness  of  all  mortal  things  is  impressed  upon 
his  mind  by  the  chanting  of  the  simple  but  eloquent  phrase, 
Sic  transit  gloria  micndi.  But  we  neuralgic  and  gouty 
wretches  need  no  whispering  slave  nor  smoking  flax  to  re- 
mind us  of  our  frailty  and  the  transientness  of  our  happi- 
ness and  glory.  We  carry  with  us  a  monitor  who  checks 
our  swelling  pride,  and  teaches  us  effectually  the  brevity  of 
human  joys.  We  are  very  apt,  in  our  impatience  and 
short-sightedness,  to  think  that  if  we  had  the  management 
of  the  world  and  the  dispensation  of  pleasure  and  suffering, 
every  thing  could  be  conducted  in  a  much  more  satisfactory 
manner.  If  it  were  so,  we  should  undoubtedly  carry  things 
on  in  the  style  of  a  French  restaurant,  so  that  we  could 
have  pain  a  discretion.  But  on  the  whole,  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  we  had  better  leave  these  matters  to  the  man- 
agement of  that  infinite  Power  which  gives  us  day  by  ^^y 
22 


254  AGUECHEEK. 

our  daily  pain,  and  from  which  we  receive  in  the  long  run 
about  what  is  meet  for  us.  I  hope  that  I  shall  not  be 
thought  ill-bred  or  profane  in  using  such  expressions  as 
these.  At  my  time  of  life  it  is  too  late  to  begin  to  murmnr. 
A  few  twinges  more  or  less  are  nothing  when  the  hair 
grows  gray  and  the  eye  is  dimmed  with  the  mists  of  age. 
The  man  who  knows  nothing  of  the  novitiate  of  patience 
—  who  has  passed  through  life  without  the  chastening  dis- 
cipline of  bodily  pain  —  has  missed  one  of  the  best  parts 
of  existence.  To  suffer  is  one  of  the  noblest  prerogatives 
of  human  nature.  Without  suffering,  life  would  be  robbed 
of  half  its  zest,  and  the  thought  of  death  would  drive  us  to 
despair. 

When  I  was  a  yeung  man,  and  gave  little  thought  to  the 
gout  and  the  other  ills  that  vex  me  at  present,  I  saw  a  won- 
derful exhibition  of  patience,  which  I  now  daily  recall  to 
mind,  and  wish  I  could  imitate.  I  was  sojourning  in 
Florence,  that  lovely  city,  whose  every  association  is  one  of 
calm  and  satisfactory  pleasure  undisturbed  by  any  thing  like 
bodily  suffering.  I  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  a  young 
American  amateur  artist  of  unquestioned  talent,  but  whose 
artistic  efforts  were  interfered  with  by  the  frequent  attacks 
of  a  serious  and  excruciating  disorder.  It  was  considerable 
time  after  I  made  his  acquaintance  before  I  knew  that  he 
was  an  invalid.  I  noticed  his  lameness,  but  whenever  we 
met  he  wore  a  smiling  face,  and  had  a  cheerful  word  for 
every  body.  One  evening  I  called  in  at  his  quiet  lodgings 
near  the  Lung  'Amo,  and  found  a  party  of  some  six  or 
eight  Americans  talking  over  their  recollections  of  home. 
He  was  entertaining  them  with  the  explanation  of  an  im- 
aginary panorama  of  New  England,  and  a  musical  friend 
tlirew  in  illustrative  passages  from  the  piano  in  the  inter- 
vals. The  parlour  resounded  with  our  laughter  at  his  irre- 
sistible fun  ;  but  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  he  asked  us  to  excuse 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  SUPPERINQ.       265 

him  for  a  moment,  and  went  into  his  bed-room.  Afler  a 
little  while,  another  engagement  calling  me  away,  I  went 
into  his  chamber  to  speak  with  him  before  leaving.  I  found 
him  lying  upon  his  bed,  writhing  like  Laocoon,  while  great 
drops  stood  upon  his  brow  and  agony  was  depicted  on  his 
patient  face.  He  resisted  all  my  attempts  to  do  any  thing 
for  him ;  the  attack  had  lasted  all  day,  but  was  at  some 
times  severer  than  at  others  ;  he  should  feel  better  soon, 
and  would  go  back  to  his  friends ;  I  had  better  not  stop 
with  him,  as  it  might  attract  their  attention  in  the  parlour, 
&c.  So  I  took  my  leave.  The  next  morning  I  met  one 
of  his  friends,  who  told  me  that  he  returned  to  his  company 
a  few  minutes  after  my  departure,  and  entertained  them  for 
an  hour  or  more  with  an  exhibition  of  his  powers  of  wit 
and  humour,  which  eclipsed  all  his  previous  efforts.  Poor 
S.  C. !  His  weary  but  uncomplaining  spirit  laid  down  that 
crippled  body,  which  never  gave  aught  but  pain  to  its  pos- 
sessor, three  or  four  years  ago,  and  passed,  let  us  hope,  into 
a  happier  state  of  existence,  which  flesh  and  blood,  with 
their  countless  maladies  and  dolours,  may  not  inherit. 

The  traveller  in  the  south  of  Europe  frequently  encoun- 
ters, in  his  perambulations  through  the  streets  and  squares 
of  cities,  a  group  of  people  gathered  around  a  monk,  who  is 
discoursing  to  them  of  those  sublime  truths  which  men  are 
prone  to  lose  sight  of  in  their  walks  abroad.  The  style  of 
the  sermon  is  not,  it  is  true,  what  we  should  look  for  from 
Newman,  or  Ravignan,  or  Ventura,  but  it  has  in  it  those 
fundamental  principles  of  true  eloquence,  simplicity  and 
earnestness  ;  and  the  coarse  brown  habit,  the  knotted  cord, 
and  the  pale,  serene,  devout  face  of  the  preacher,  harmonize 
wondrously  with  the  self-denying  doctrine  he  teaches,  and 
give  a  double  force  to  all  his  words.  His  instructions  fre- 
quently concern  the  simple  moral  duties  of  life  and  the 
exercise  of  the  cardinal  virtues,  which  he  enforces  by  illus> 


256  AGUECHEEK. 

trations  drawn  fiom  the  lives  of  canonized  saints,  who  wov 
their  heavenly  crown  and  their  earthly  fame  of  blessednesf 
by  the  practice  of  those  virtues.  Allow  me  to  close  mi 
sermon  on  suifering  in  the  manner  of  the  preaching  friars, 
though  I  may  not  draw  my  illustrations  from  the  ancient 
martyrologies  ;  for  I  apprehend  that  it  will  be  more  in  keep- 
ing with  the  serious  character  of  this  essay  to  take  them 
from  another  source.  "We  have  all  laughed  at  Dickens's 
characters  of  Mark  Tapley  and  Mr.  Toots.  The  former 
was  celebrated  for  "  keeping  jolly  under  disadvantageous 
circumstances,"  and  seemed  to  mourn  over  those  dispensa- 
tions of  good  fortune  which  detracted  from  his  credit  in 
being  jolly.  The  latter  was  never  known  to  indulge  in  any 
complaint,  but  met  every  mishap  and  disappointment  with 
a  manly  resignation  and  the  simple  remark,  "  It's  of  no  con- 
sequence." Even  when  he  was  completely  ingulfed  in 
misfortunes,  when  Pelion  seemed  to  have  been  heaped  upon 
Ossa,  and  both  upon  him,  he  did  not  give  way  to  despair. 
He  only  gave  utterance  more  fervently  to  his  favourite 
maxim,  "  It's  of  no  consequence.  Nothing  is  of  any  con- 
sequence whatever  ! "  Now,  laugh  at  it  as  we  may,  this  is 
a  great  truth.  It  is  the  foundation  of  all  true  philosophy  — 
of  all  practical  religion.  A  few  years  more,  and  what  will 
it  avail  us  to  have  bargained  successfully,  to  have  lived 
in  splendour,  to  have  left  in  history  a  name  that  shall  be 
the  synonyme  of  power !  A  few  years,  and  what  shall  we 
care  for  all  our  present  sufferings  and  the  light  afflictions 
which  are  but  for  a  moment !  May  we  not  say  with  Solo- 
mon, that  "  All  is  vanity,"  and  with  poor  Toots,  that  "  Noth- 
ing is  of  any  consequence  whatever  ?  "  Now,  if  there  are  any 
people  who  are  likely  to  arrive  at  this  satisfactory  conclu- 
sion, and  who  need  the  consolation  imparted  by  the  recep- 
tion and  full  appreciation  of  the  deep  truth  it  contains,  it  is 
the  gouty,  and  rheumatic,  and  neuralgic  wretches  whom  I 


THE   PHILOSOPHY  OF  SUFFERING.  257 

have  had  in  mind  while  writing  this  paper.  Let  me,  in 
conclusion,  as  one  who  has  had  some  experience,  and  is  not 
merely  theorizing,  exhort  all  such  persons  to  meditate  upon 
the  lives  of  the  two  great  patterns  of  patience  whom 
I  have  brought  forward  as  examples ;  and  to  bear  in 
mind  that  it  is  only  through  the  resignation  of  Toots,  that 
they  can  attain  to  the  jollity  of  Tapley.  Likewise  let  me 
counsel  those  who  may  be  passing  through  life  unharmed 
by  serious  misfortune  and  untrammelled  by  bodily  pain, 
never  to  lose  sight  of  that  striking  admonition  of  old  Sir 
Thomas  Browne's,  "  Measure  not  thyself  by  thy  morning 
shadow,  but  by  the  extent  of  thy  grave  ;  and  reckon  thyself 
above  the  earth,  by  the  line  thou  must  be  contented  with 
under  it** 

22* 


BOYHOOD    AND    BOYS. 

Human  nature  is  a  very  telescopic  "institution."  I* 
delights  to  dwell  on  whatever  is  most  distant.  Lord  Rosse's 
famous  instrument  dwindles  down  to  a  mere  opera  glass  if 
you  compare  it  with  the  mental  vision  of  a  restles  boy,  look- 
ing forward  to  the  time  when  he  shall  don  a  tail-coat  and  a 
beaver  hat.  How  his  young  heart  swells  with  pride  as  he 
anticipates  the  day  when  he  shall  be  his  own  master,  as  the 
phrase  is  —  when  he  shall  be  able  to  stay  out  after  nine 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  to  go  home  without  being  sub- 
jected to  the  ignominy  of  being  escorted  by  a  chamber- 
maid! If  he  be  of  a  particularly  sanguine  temperament, 
his  wild  imagination  is  rapt  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
possibility  of  one  day  having  his  name  in  the  newspapers 
as  secretary  of  some  public  meeting,  or  as  having  made  a 
vigorous  speech  at  a  political  caucus  where  liberty  of  speech 
runs  out  into  slander,  and  sedition  is  mistaken  for  patriot- 
ism,—  or  perhaps  even  of  being  one  day  a  Common  Coun- 
cilman, or  a  member  of  the  Great  and  General  Court.  A 
popular  poet  of  the  present  day  has  expressed  the  same 
idea  in  a  less  prosaic  manner  :  — 

^  "  Not  rainbow  pinions  coloured  like  yon  cloud, 

^  The  sun's  broad  banner  o'er  his  western  tent, 

Can  match  the  bright  imaginings  of  a  child 
Upon  the  glories  of  his  cuining  years  : "  — 

and  another  bard  avers  that  human  blessings  are  always 
governing  the  future,  and  never  the  present  tense,  —  or 
bomething  to  that  efi'^ct.     The  truth  of   this  nobody  will 

(268) 


BOYHOOD   AND   BOYS.  2^59 

deny  who  has  passed  from  the  boxes  of  childhood  upon  the 
stage  of  manhood  which  so  charmed  hi^  youthful  fancy, 
and  finds  that  the  heroes  who  dazzled  him  once  by  their 
splendid  achievements  are  mere  ordinary  mortals  like  him- 
self, whom  the  blindness  or  caprice  of  their  fellows  has 
'owed  to  be  dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority ;  that  the 
-oud-capped  towers  and  gorgeous  palaces  he  used  to  gaze 
on  from  afar,  prove,  on  a  closer  inspection,  to  be  mere  de- 
ceptions of  paint  and  canvas,  and  that  he  has  only  to  look 
behind  them  to  see  the  rough  bricks  and  mortar  of  every- 
day life. 

The  voyager  who  sails  from  the  dark  waters  of  the  rest- 
less Atlantic  into  the  deep  blue  Mediterranean,  notices  at 
sunset  a  rich  purple  haze  which  rises  apparently  from  the 
surface  of  that  fair  inland  sea,  and  drapes  the  hills  and 
vales  along  the  beautiful  shore  with  a  glory  that  fills  the 
heart  of  the  beholder  with  unutterable  gladness.  The  dis- 
tant, snow-covered  peaks  of  old  Granada,  clad  in  the  same 
bright  robe,  seem  by  their  regal  presence  to  impose  silence 
on  those  whom  their  majestic  beauty  has  blessed  with  a 
momentary  poetic  inspiration  which  defies  all  power  of 
tongue  or  pen.  It  touches  nothing  which  it  does  not  adorn, 
and  the  commonest  objects  are  transmuted  by  its  magic 
into  fairy  shapes  which  abide  ever  after  in  the  memory. 
Under  its  softening  influence,  the  dingy  sail  of  a  fisherman's 
boat  becomes  almost  as  beautiful  an  object  to  the  sight  as 
the  ruins  of  the  temple  which  crowns  the  height  of  Cape 
Colonna.  But  when  you  approach  nearer  to  that  which 
had  seemed  so  charming  in  its  twilight  robes,  your  poetic 
sense  is  somewhat  interfered  with.  You  find  the  fishing 
boat  as  unattractive  as  any  that  anchor  on  the  Banks  from 
which  we  obtain  such  frequent  discounts  of  nasty  weather, 
and  the  shore,  though  it  may  still  be  very  beautiful,  lacks 
the  supernal  glory  imparted  to  it  by  distance.     It  is  very 


260  AQUECHEEE. 

much  after  this  fashion  with  manhood,  when  we  compare  itfc 
reality  with  our  childish  expectations.  We  find  that  we 
have  been  deceived  by  a  mere  atmospheric  phenomenon. 
But  the  destruction  of  the  charm  which  age  had  for  our 
eyes  as  children,  is  compensated  for  by  the  creation  of  a 
new  glory  which  lights  up  our  young  days,  as  we  look  back 
upon  them  with  the  regret  of  manhood,  and  realize  that 
their  joys  can  never  be  lived  over  again. 

Pardon  me,  gentle  reader,  for  all  this  prosing.  I  have 
been  reading  that  pleasant,  hearty  book,  "  Tom  Brown's 
School  Days  at  Rugby,"  during  the  past  week,  and  it  has 
set  me  a-thinking  about  my  own  boyhood ;  for,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  there  was  a  time  when  this  troublesome  foot 
was  more  familiar  with  the  football  and  the  skate  thaa 
with  gout  and  flannel,  —  and  Tom  Brown's  genial  reminis- 
cences have  revived  the  memory  of  that  time  most  won- 
derfully. There  was  considerable  fun  in  Boston  in  my 
childhood,  even  though  most  of  the  faces  which  one  met  in 
Marlboro'  Street  and  Comhill  were  such  as  might  have 
appropriately  surrounded  Cromwell  at  Naseby  or  Marston 
Moor.  There  were  many  people,  even  then,  who  did  not 
regard  religion  as  an  affair  of  spasmodic  emotions,  and 
long,  bilious-looking  faces,  and  psalm-singing,  and  neck-ties. 
They  thought  that,  so  long  as  they  were  honest  in  their 
dealings,  and  did  not  swear  to  false  invoices  at  the  custom- 
house, and  did  as  they  would  be  done  by,  and  lived  vir- 
tuously, that  He  to  whom  they  had  been  taught  by  parental 
lips  to  pray,  would  overlook  the  smaller  offences  —  such  as 
an  occasional  laugh  or  a  pleasant  jest  —  into  which  weak 
nature  would  now  and  then  betray  them.  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  they  were  about  right,  though  I  fear  that  I 
shall  be  set  down  as  little  better  than  one  of  the  wicked  by 
Stiggins,  Chadband,  Sleek  &  Co. 

Yes,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  fun  among  the  boys  in 


BOYHOOD   AND   BOYS.  261 

those  old  days.  Boys  will  be  boys,  however  serious  the 
family  may  be ;  and  if  you  take  away  their  marbles,  some 
other  "  vanity "  will  be  sure  to  take  their  place.  What 
jolly  times  we  used  to  have  Artillery  Election !  How  good 
the  egg-pop  used  to  taste,  in  spite  of  the  dust  of  Park 
Street,  which  mingled  itself  liberally  with  the  nutmeg! 
How  we  used  to  save  up  our  money  for  those  festive  days  ! 
How  hard  the  arithmetic  lessons  seemed,  particularly  in  the 
days  immediately  preceding  vacation  !  How  dreary  were 
those  long  winters ;  and  yet  how  short  and  pleasant  they 
seemed  to  us !  for  we  loved  the  runners,  and  skates,  and 
jingling  bells,  and,  as  Pescatore,  the  Neapolitan  poet,  sings, 
"  though  bleak  our  lot,  our  hearts  were  warm." 

Newspapers  were  not  a  common  luxury  in  those  times, 
and  I  suppose  that  I  took  as  little  notice  of  passing  events 
as  most  children  ;  yet  I  well  remember  the  effect  produced 
upon  my  mind  one  dark,  threatening  afternoon,  near  the 
close  of  the  last  century,  by  the  announcement  of  the  death 
of  General  Washington.  I  had  been  accustomed  to  hear 
him  talked  about  as  the  Father  of  his  Country ;  I  had 
studied  the  lineaments  of  his  calm  countenance,  as  they 
were  set  forth  for  the  edification  of  my  patriotism  on  some 
coarse  handkerchiefs  presented  to  me  by  a  public-spirited 
aunt,  until  I  began  to  look  upon  him  as  almost  a  supernat- 
ural being.  If  I  had  been  told  that  the  Old  South  had 
been  removed  to  Dorchester  Heights,  or  that  the  solar 
system  was  irreparably  disarranged,  I  should  not  have 
been  more  completely  taken  aback  than  I  was  by  that  mel- 
ancholy intelligence.  I  need  not  say  that  afterwards,  when 
I  grew  up  and  found  that  Washington  was  not  only  a  mor- 
tal like  the  rest  of  us,  but  that  he  sometimes  spelt  incor- 
rectly enough  to  have  suited  Noah  Webster,  (the  inventor 
of  the  American  language,)  my  supernatural  view  of  that 
estimable  general  and  patriot  was  very  materially  modified. 


262  '  AGUECHEEK. 

I  remember,  too,  how  much  I  used  to  hear  said  about  ao 
extraordinary  man  who  had  risen  up  in  France,  and  who 
seemed  to  be  bending  all  Europe  to  his  will.  I  never  shall 
forget  my  astonishment  on  finding  that  Marengo  was  not  & 
man,  but  a  place.  The  discovery  shamed  me  somewhat, 
and  afterwards  I  always  read  whatever  newspapers  came 
in  my  way.  When  some  slow  tub  of  a  packet  had  come 
across  the  ocean,  battling  with  the  nor'-westers,  and  was 
announced  to  have  made  a  "  quick  passage  of  forty-eight 
days,"  how  eagerly  I  followed  the  rapid  fortunes  of  the  first 
Napoleon !  His  successes,  as  they  intoxicated  him,  dazzled 
and  bewildered  my  boyish  imagination.  I  understood  the 
matter  imperfectly,  but  I  loved  Napoleon,  and  delighted  to 
repeat  to  myself  those  stirring  names,  Austerlitz,  Jena, 
Wagram,  &c.  How  I  hated  Russia  after  the  disastrous 
campaign  of  1812!  (By  the  way,  the  exhibition  of  the 
Conflagration  of  Moscow,  which  used  to  have  its  intermit- 
tent terms  of  exhibition  here  some  years  since,  always 
brought  back  all  my  youthful  feelings  about  the  old  Napo- 
leon ;  the  march  of  the  artillery  across  the  bridge,  in  the 
foreground  of  the  scene,  the  rattling  of  the  gun  carriages, 
—  that  most  warlike  of  all  warlike  sounds,  —  the  burning 
city,  the  destruction  of  the  Kremlin,  all  united  in  my  mind 
to  form  a  sentiment  of  admiration  and  sympathy  for  the 
baffled  conqueror.  If  that  admirable  show  were  to  be 
revived  once  more,  I  should  be  tempted  to  take  a  season 
ticket  to  it,  for  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  would  thrill  me  just 
as  it  did  before  my  head  could  boast  of  a  single  gray  hair.) 
Nor  was  my  admiration  for  Napoleon's  old  marshals  much 
below  that  which  I  entertained  for  the  mighty  genius  who 
knew  so  well  how  to  avail  himself  of  their  surpassing 
bravery  and  skill.  I  felt  as  if  the  unconquerable  Murat, 
Lannes,  Macdonald,  Davoust,  were  my  dearest  and  most 
intimate  friends.     The  impetuous  Ney,  "  the  bravest  of  the 


BOYHOOD   AND  BOYS.  263 

brave,"  as  his  soldiers  called  him  ;  and  the  inflexible  Mas- 
sena,  "  the  favourite  child  of  victory,"  figured  in  all  my 
dreams,  heading  gallant  charges,  and  withstanding  deadly 
assaults,  and  occupied  the  best  part  of  my  waking  thoughts. 
I  do  not  doubt  that  there  is  many  a  school-boy  nowadays  Avho 
has  dwelt  with  equal  delight  on  the  achievements  of  Scott 
and  Taylor,  of  Canrobert,  Bosquet  and  Pelissier,  of  Fenwick 
Williams  and  Havelock,  and  poor  old  Raglan,  (that  brave 
man  upon  whom  the  Circumlocution  Office  tried  to  fasten  the 
blame  of  its  own  inefficiency,  and  who  died  broken-hearted, 
a  melancholy  illustration  of  the  truth  of  Shakespeare's  lines, — 

"  The  painful  warrior,  famoused  for  fight, 
After  a  thousand  victories  once  foiled, 
Is  from  the  book  of  honour  raz6d  quite, 
And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toiled,") 

and  who  cherishes  them  as  I  did  the  heroes  of  half  a  cen- 
tury ago. 

But,  as  I  was  saying,  Tom  Brown's  happy  reminiscences 
of  Rugby  have  awakened  once  more  all  my  boyish  feelings  ; 
for  New  England  has  its  Rugby,  and  many  of  the  readers 
of  the  old  Rugby  boy's  pleasant  pages  will  grow  enthusiastic 
with  the  recollection  of  their  schoolboy  days  at  Exeter,  — 
their  snowballings,  their  manly  sports,  their  mighty  contests 
with  the  boys  of  the  town,  —  and,  though  they  may  not 
claim  the  genius  of  the  former  head-master  of  Rugby  for 
the  guardian  of  their  youthful  sports  and  studies,  will  apply 
all  of  the  old  boy's  praises  of  Dr.  Arnold  to  the  wise,  judi- 
cious, and  lovable  Dr.  Abbot. 

I  always  cherished  an  unbounded  esteem  for  boys.  The 
boy  —  the  genuine  human  boy  —  may,  I  think,  safely  be 
set  down  as  the  noblest  work  of  God.  Pope  claims  that 
proud  distinction  for  the  honest  man,  but  at  the  present 
time,  the  nearest  we  can  come  to  such  a  mythological  per- 
sonage as  an  honest  man,  (even  though  we  add  Argand 


264  AGUECHEEK. 

burners,  expensive  Carcels,  Davy  safeties,  and  ttie  Drum- 
mond  light  to  the  officially  recognized  lantern  of  Diogenes,) 
is  a  real  human  boy,  without  a  thought  beyond  his  next 
holiday,  with  his  heart  overflowing  with  happiness,  and  his 
po(;kets  chock  full  of  marbles.  Young  girls  cannot  help 
betraying  something  of  the  in-dwelling  vanity  so  natural  to 
the  sex ;  you  can  discern  a  self-consciousness  in  their  every 
action  which  you  shall  look  for  in  vain  in  the  boy.  Bless 
your  heart !  —  you  may  dress  a  real  boy  up  with  super- 
human care,  and  try  to  impress  on  his  young  mind  that  he 
is  the  pride  of  his  parents,  and  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
beings  that  ever  visited  this  mundane  sphere,  and  he  will 
listen  to  you  with  becoming  reverence  and  docility;  but 
his  pure  and  honest.nature  will  give  the  lie  to  all  your  flat- 
tery as  soon  as  your  back  is  turned,  and  in  ten  minutes  you 
will  find  him  kicking  out  the  toes  of  his  new  boots,  or 
rumpling  his  clean  collar  by  "  playing  horse,"  or  using  the 
top  of  his  new  cap  for  a  drinking  vessel,  and  mixing  in  with 
the  Smiths,  and  Browns,  and  Jinkinses,  on  terms  of  the 
most  unquestioned  equality.  The  author  of  Tom  Brown 
says  that  "  boys  follow  one  another  in  herds  like  sheep,  for 
good  or  evil ;  they  hate  thinking,  and  have  rarely  any  set- 
tled principles."  This  is  undoubtedly  true  ;  but  still  there 
is  a  generous  instinct  in  boys  which  is  far  more  trustworthy 
than  those  sliding,  and  unreliable,  and  deceptive  ideas  which 
we  call  settled  principles.  The  boy's  thinking  powers  may 
be  fallible,  but  his  instinct  is,  in  the  main,  sure.  There  is 
no  aristocracy  of  feeling  among  boys.  Linsey-woolsey  or 
broadcloth  find  equal  favour  in  their  eyes.  What  they  seek 
is  just  as  likely  to  be  found  under  coarse  raiment  as  under 
purple  and  fine  linen.  If  their  companion  is  a  real  good 
feller,  even  though  he  be  a  son  of  a  rich  merchant  or  banker, 
he  is  esteemed  as  highly  as  if  his  father  were  an  editor  of  a 
newspaper. 


BOYHOOD   AND  BOYS.  265 

The  nature  of  the  boy  is  full  of  the  very  essence  of  gen- 
erosity. The  boys  who  hide  away  their  gingerbread,  and 
eat  it  by  themselves,  —  ■vvho  lay  up  their  Fourth  of  July  five- 
cent  pieces,  for  deposit  in  that  excellent  savings  institution 
in  School  Street,  instead  of  spending  them  for  the  legitimate 
India  crackers  of  the  "  Sabbath  Day  of  Freedom,"  —  are 
exceptions  which  only  put  the  genei'al  rule  beyond  the  pale 
of  controversy.  The  real  boy  carries  his  apple  in  one  'of 
his  pockets  until  it  is  comfortably  warm,  and  he  has  found 
some  companion  to  whom  he  may  offer  a  festive  bite ;  for  he 
feels,  with  Goethe,  that 

"  It  were  the  greatest  misery  known 
To  be  in  paradise  alone  ; " 

and  if,  occasionally,  when  he  sees  his  friend  gratifying  his 
palate  with  a  fair  round  specimen  of  the  same  delicious  fruit, 
he  asks  for  a  return  of  his  kindness,  with  a  beckoning  ges- 
ture, and  a  free  and  easy  —  "I  say,  you  know  me.  Bill ! " 
—  he  is  moved  thereto  by  no  mere  selfish  liking  for  apples, 
but  by  a  natural  sense  of  friendship,  and  of  the  excellence 
of  the  apostolic  principle  of  community  of  goods.  This 
spirit  of  generosity  may  be  seen  in  the  friendships  of  boys, 
which  are  more  entire  and  unselfish  than  those  by  which 
men  seek  to  mitigate  the  irksomeness  of  life.  There  are 
more  Oresteses  and  Pyladeses,  more  Damons  and  Pythiases, 
at  twelve  years  of  age  than  at  any  later  period  of  life.  The 
devotedness  of  boyish  friendship  is  peculiar  from  the  fact 
that  it  is  generally  reciprocal.  In  this  it  is  superior  to  what 
we  call  love,  which,  if  we  may  believe  the  French  satirist, 
in  most  instances  consists  of  one  party  who  loves,  and 
another  who  allows  himself  or  herself  to  be  loved.  This 
phenomenon  has  not  escaped  the  notice  of  that  great  ob- 
server of  human  nature,  Thackeray. 

"  What  generous  boy,"  he  asks,  "  in  his  time  has  not  wor- 
23 


266  AGUECHEEK. 

shipped  somebody  ?  Before  the  female  enslaver  makes  her 
appearance,  every  lad  has  a  friend  of  friends,  a  crony  of 
cronies,  to  whom  he  writes  immense  letters  in  vacation ; 
whom  he  cherishes  in  his  heart  of  hearts  ;  whose  sister  he 
proposes  to  marry  in  after  life  ;  whose  purse  he  shares ;  for 
whom  he  will  take  a  thrashing  if  need  be ;  who  is  his  hera" 
The  generosity,  and  all  the  priceless  charms  of  boyhood, 
rarely  outlive  its  careless  years  of  happiness.  They  are 
generally  severely  shaken,  if  not  wholly  destroyed,  when 
the  youth  enters  upon  that  crepuscular  period  of  manhood 
in  which  his  jacket  is  lengthened  into  a  sack,  and  he  begins 
to  take  his  share  in  the  conceit,  and  ambition,  and  selfishness 
of  full-grown  humanity.  It  is  sad  to  think  that  a  human 
boy,  like  the  morning  star,  full  of  life  and  joy,  may  be 
stricken  down  by  death,  and  all  his  hilarity  stifled  in  the 
grave ;  but  to  my  mind  it  is  even  more  melancholy  to  think 
that  he  may  live  to  grow  up,  and  be  hard,  and  worldly,  and 
ungenerous  as  any  of  the  rest  of  us.  For  this  latter  fate 
is  accompanied  by  no  consolations  such  as  naturally  assuage 
our  sorrow  when  an  innocent  child  is  snatched  from  among 
his  playthings,  —  when  "  death  has  set  the  seal  of  eternity 
upon  his  brow,  and  the  beautiful  hath  been  made  perma- 
nent." I  have  seen  few  men  who  would  be  willing  to  live 
over  again  their  years  of  manhood,  however  prosperous  and 
comparatively  free  from  trouble  they  may  have  been  ;  but 
fewer  still  are  those  whom  I  have  met,  in  whose  memory 
the  records  of  boyhood  are  not  written  as  with  a  sunbeam. 
No,  talk  as  we  may  about  the  happiness  of  manhood,  the 
satisfaction  of  success  in  life,  of  gratified  ambition,  of  the 
possession  of  the  Mary  or  Lizzie  of  one's  choice,  —  what  ia 
it  all  compared  to  the  unadulterate  joy  of  that  time  when 
we  built  our  card  houses,  and  mad*^  our  dirt  pies,  or  drove 
our  hoops,  unvexed  by  the  thoughts  that  Jinkins's  house  was 
larger  than  ours,  or  by  any  anxiety  concerning  the  possi- 


BOYHOOD   AND   BOYS.  267 

bility  of  obtaining  our  next  day's  mutton-chop  and  potatoes? 
Except  the  momentary  pain  occasioned  by  the  exercise  of  a 
magisterial  rattan  upon  our  persons,  or  an  occasional  stern 
reproof  from  a  hair-brush  or  the  thin  sole  of  a  maternal  shoe, 
that  halcyon  period  is  imperturbed,  and  may  safely  be  called 
the  happiest  part  of  life. 

My  venerated  friend,  Baron  Nabem,  who  has  been  through 
all  these  "  experiences,"  and  therefore  ought  to  know,  in- 
sists upon  it  that  no  man  really  knows  any  thing  until  he  is 
forty  years  old.  For  when  he  is  eighteen  or  twenty  years 
of  age,  he  esteems  himself  to  be  a  sort  of  combination  of 
the  seven  wise  men  of  Greece  in  one  person,  with  Hum- 
boldt, Mezzofanti,  and  Macaulay  thrown  in  to  make  out  the 
weight ;  at  twenty-five,  his  confidence  in  his  own  infallibility 
begins  to  grow  somewhat  shaky ;  at  thirty,  he  begins  to 
wish  that  he  might  really  know  a  tenth  part  as  much  as  he 
thought  he  did  ten  years  before;  at  thirty-five,  he  thinks 
that  if  he  were  added  up,  there  would  be  very  little  to 
carry ;  and  at  forty  the  great  truth  bursts  upon  him  in  all 
its  effulgence  that  he  is  an  ass.  There  are  some  who  reach 
this  desirable  state  of  self-knowledge  before  they  attain  the 
age  specified  by  the  Baron  ;  other  some  there  are  who 
never  reach  it  at  all,  —  as  we  all  see  numerous  instances 
around  us,  —  but  these  are  mere  exceptions  strengthening 
rather  than  invalidating  the  common  rule.  It  is  a  humiliat- 
ing acknowledgment,  but  if  we  consider  the  uncertainty  of 
all  earthly  things,  if  we  try  the  depth  of  the  sea  of  human 
science,  and  find  how  easy  it  is  to  touch  bottom  any  where 
therein,  if  we  convince  ourselves  of  the  impenetrability  of 
the  veil  which  bounds  our  mental  vision,  —  I  think  that  we 
shall  be  obliged  to  allow  that  the  recognition  of  our  own  noth- 
ingness and  asininity  is  the  sum  and  perfection  of  human 
knowledge.  Now,  Solomon  tells  us  that  he  who  increases 
knowledge  increases  sorrow ;  and  it  naturally  follows  that 


268  AGUECHEEK. 

when  a  man  has  reached  the  knowledge  which  generally 
comes  with  his  fortieth  year,  he  is  less  happy  than  he  was 
when  he  wrapped  himself  in  the  measureless  content  of  his 
twentieth  year's  self-deception.  And  it  follows,  too,  most 
incontrovertibly,  that  he  is  happier  when  unpossessed  by 
that  exaggerated  self-esteem  which  rendered  the  discovery 
of  his  fortieth  y^ar  necessary  to  him  ;  and  when  is  that 
time,  if  not  during  the  careless,  happy  years  of  boyhood  ? 

The  period  of  boyhood  has  been  shortened  very  consider- 
ably within  a  few  years  ;  and  real  boys  are  becoming  scarce. 
They  are  no  sooner  emancipated  from  the  bright  buttons 
which  unite  the  two  principal  articles  of  puerile  apparel, 
than  they  begin  to  pant  for  virile  habiliments.  Their  choler 
is  roused  if  they  are  denied  a  stand-up  dickey.  They  sport 
canes.  They  delight  to  display  themselves  at  lectures  and 
concerts.  Their  young  lips  are  not  innocent  of  damns  and 
short-sixes ;  and  they  imitate  the  vulgarity  and  conceit 
of  the  young  men  of  the  present  day  so  successfully  that 
you  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  they  are  mere  children. 
Since  this  period  of  dearth  in  the  boy  market  set  in,  of 
course  the  genuine,  marketable  article  has  become  more 
precious  to  me.  I  i-emember  seeing  an  old  physician  in 
Paris,  who  was  as  true  a  boy  as  any  beloved  twelve-year- 
old  that  ever  snapped  a  marble  or  stuck  his  forefinger  into 
a  preserve  jar  on  an  upper  shelf  in  a  china  closet.  A 
charming  old  fellow  he  was,  too.  Pie  used  to  stop  to  see 
the  boys  play  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries,  and  I  knew 
him  once  to  spend  a  whole  afternoon  in  the  avenue  of  the 
Champs  Elysees  looking  at  the  puppet  shows  and  other 
sights  with  the  rest  of  the  youngsters.  He  told  me  after- 
wards that  that  was  one  of  the  happiest  days  of  his  life ;  for 
he  had  felt  as  if  he  were  back  again  in  the  pleasant  time 
before  he  knew  any  thing  of  that  most  uncertain  of  all  un- 
certain things  —  the  science  of  medicine  ;  and  he  doubted 


BOYHOOD   AND   BOYS.  269 

whether  any  boy  there  had  enjoyed  the  cheap  amusement 
more  than  himself.  I  envied  him,  for  I  knew  that  he  who 
retained  so  much  of  the  happy  spirit  of  boyhood  could  not 
have  outlived  all  of  its  generosity  and  simplicity.  "  Once  a 
man  and  twice  a  child,"  says  the  old  proverb ;  and  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  if  at  the  last  we  could  only  recall  some- 
thing of  the  sincerity,  and  innocence,  and  unselfishness  of 
our  early  life,  second  childhood  would  indeed  be  a  blessed 
thing. 

23* 


irco    /  ir»-» 


/ 


GIRLHOOD    AND    GIRLS. 

A  BRIGHT-EYED,  fail",  young  maiden,  whose  satchel  I 
should  insist  upon  carrying  to  school  for  her  every  morning 
if  I  were  half  a  century  younger,  came  to  me  a  day  or  two 
after  the  publication  of  my  last  essay,  and,  placing  her 
white,  taper  fingers  in  my  rough,  Esau-like  hand,  said,  "  I 
liked  your  piece  about  the  boys  very  much ;  and  now  I 
hope  that  you'll  write  something  about  girls."  "My  dear 
Nellie,"  replied  I,  "  if  I  should  do  that  I  should  lose  all  my 
female  acquaintances.  I  have  a  weakness  for  telling  the 
truth,  and  there  are  some  subjects  concerning  which  it  is 
very  dangerous  to  speak  out  '  the  whole  truth  and  nothing 
but  the  truth.' "     The  gentle  damsel  smiled,  and  looked 

"  Modest  as  justice,  and  did  seem  a  palace 
For  the  crown'd  truth  to  dwell  in," 

as  she  still  urged  me  on,  and  refused  to  see  any  danger  in 
my  giving  out  the  plainest  truth  about  girlhood.  She  had 
no  fear,  though  all  the  truth  were  told ;  and  I  suppose  that 
if  we  had  some  of  Nellie's  purity  and  gentleness  remaining 
in  our  sere  and  selfish  hearts,  we  should  be  much  better  and 
happier  men  and  women,  and  should  dread  the  truth  as  lit- 
tle as  she  does.  But  I  must  not  begin  my  truth-telling  by 
seeming  to  praise  too  highly,  though  it  must  be  confessed, 
even  at  my  time  of  life,  if  I  were  to  describe  the  charming 
young  person  I  have  referred  to,  with  the  merciless  fidelity 
of  a  daguerreotype  and  an  absence  of  hyperbole  wortliy  of 
the  late  Dr.  Bowditch's  work  on  Navigation,  I  should  seem 
to  the  unfortunate  "general  reader"  who  does  not  know 

(270) 


GIRLHOOD  AND  GIRLS.  271 

Nell,  to  be  indulging  in  the  grossest  flattery,  and  panting 
poesy  would  toil  after  me  in  vain.  So  I  will  put  aside  all 
temptations  of  that  kind,  and  come  down  to  the  plain  prose 
of  my  subject. 

There  is,  in  fact,  very  little  that  can  be  said  about  girl- 
hood. Those  calm  years  that  come  between  the  commence- 
ment of  the  bondage  of  the  pantalettes  and  emancipation 
from  the  tasks  of  school,  present  few  salient  points  upon 
which  the  essayist  (observe  he  never  so  closely)  may  turn 
a  neat  paragraph.  They  offer  little  that  is  startling  or 
attractive  either  to  writer  or  reader,  — 

"  As  times  of  quiet  and  unbroken  peace, 
Though  for  a  nation  times  of  blessedness, 
Give  back  faint  echoes  from  the  historian's  page." 

The  rough  sports  of  boyhood,  the  out-door  life  whicli  boys 
always  take  to  so  naturally,  and  all  their  habits  of  activity, 
give  a  strength  of  light  and  shade  to  their  early  years 
which  is  not  to  be  found  in  girlhood.  It  is  not  enough  to 
say  that  there  is  no  difference  in  kind,  but  simply  one  in 
degree,  —  that  the  years  of  boyhood  are  calm  and  happy, 
and  that  those  of  girlhood  are  so  likewise,  —  that  the  former 
resemble  the  gairish  sunshine,  and  the  latter  the  mitigated 
splendour  of  the  moon  ;  for  the  characters  of  boys  seem  to 
be  struck  in  a  sharper  die  than  those  of  girls,  which  gives 
them  an  absoluteness  quite  distinct  from  the  feminine  grace 
we  naturally  look  for  in  the  latter.  The  free-hearted  boy, 
plunging  into  all  sorts  of  fun  without  a  thought  of  his  next 
day's  arithmetic  lesson,  and  with  a  charming  disregard  of 
the  expense  of  jackets  and  trousers,  and  the  gentle  girl, 
who  clings  to  her  mother's  side,  like  an  attendant  angel, 
and  contents  herself  with  teaching  long  lessons  to  docile 
paper  pupils  in  a  quiet  corner  by  the  fireside,  are  repre- 
sentatives of  two  distinct  classes  in  ilie  order  of  nature,  and 


272  AGUECHEEK. 

(untheologically,  of  course,  I  might  add)  of  grace.  There 
is  not  a  greater  difference  between  a  hockey  and  a  crochet 
needle  than  there  is  between  them. 

I  have,  as  a  general  thing,  a  greater  liking  for  boys  than 
for  girls ;  for  the  vanity  so  common  to  all  mankind  is  not 
developed  in  them  at  so  early  an  age  as  in  the  latter.  Still 
I  must  acknowledge  that  I  have  seen  some  splendid  excep- 
tions, the  mere  recollection  of  which  almost  tempts  me  to 
draw  my  pen  through  that  last  sentence.  Can  I  ever  forget 
• —  I  can  never  forget  —  one  into  whose  years  of  girlhood  the 
beauty  and  grace  of  a  long,  pure  life  seemed  to  have  been 
compressed  ?  It  was  many  years  ago,  and  I  was  younger 
than  I  am  now  —  so  pardon  me  if  I  should  seem  to  catch 
a  little  enthusiasm  of  spirit  from  the  remembrance  of  those 
days.  Like  the  ancient  Queen  of  Carthage,  Agnosco  veteris 
vestigia  Jlammce.  I  was  living  in  London  at  that  time,  or 
rather  at  Hampstead,  which  had  not  then  become  a  mere 
suburb  of  the  great  metropolis,  but  was  a  quiet  town,  whose 
bright  doorplates,  and  well-scoured  doorsteps,  and  clean 
window  curtains  contrasted  finely  with  the  dingy  brick 
walls  of  its  houses,  and  impressed  the  visitor  with  the  gen- 
eral prosperity  and  quiet  respectability  of  its  inhabitants. 
In  my  daily  walks  to  and  from  the  city,  I  frequently  met  a 
gentleman  whose  gray  hairs  and  simple  dignity  of  manners 
always  attracted  me  towards  him,  and  exacted  from  me  an 
involuntary  tribute  of  respectful  recognition.  One  day  he 
overtook  me  in  a  shower,  and  gave  me  the  benefit  of  his 
umbrella  and  his  friendship  —  for  an  intimacy  which  ended 
only  with  his  death  commenced  between  us  from  that  hour. 
He  was  a  gentleman  of  good  family  and  education,  who  had 
seen  thirty  years  of  responsible  service  in  the  employ  of 
the  Honourable  East  India  Company,  had  attained  a  com- 
petency, and  had  forsworn  Leadenhall  Street  for  a  pension 
and  a  quiet  retreat  on  the  heights  of  Hampstead.     His  wife 


GIRLHOOD   AND   GIRLS.  273 

Vas  a  lady  of  cultivated  tastes,  whose  sober  wishes  never 
learned  to  stray  from  the  path  of  simple  domestic  duty,  and 
the  presence  of  the  books  in  which  she  found  her  daily 
pleasures. 

"  Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam ; 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home." 

Their  only  child,  "  one  fair  daughter,  and  no  more,"  was  a 
gentle  and  merry-hearted  creature,  who,  in  the  short  and 
murky  days  of  November,  filled  that  cottage  with  a  more 
than  June-like  sunshine.  Her  parents  always  had  a  deep 
sympathy  with  that  unfortunate  Empress  of  France  whose 
dismission  from  the  throne  was  the  commencement  of  the 
downward  career  of  the  first  Napoleon,  and  bore  witness  to 
it  by  giving  her  name  to  their  only  child.  They  lived  only 
three  or  four  doors  from  my  lodgings,  and  there  were  few 
days  passed  after  the  episode  of  the  umbrella  in  which  I 
did  not  find  a  welcome  in  their  quiet  home.  Their  daugh- 
ter was  their  only  idol,  and  I  soon  found  myself  a  convert 
to  their  innocent  system  of  paganism.  We  all  three  agreed 
that  Josey  was  the  incarnation  of  all  known  perfections, 
and  the  lapse  of  forty  years  has  not  sufficed  to  weaken  that 
conviction  in  my  mind.  She  had  risen  just  above  the  hori- 
zon of  girlhood,  and  the  natural  beauty  of  her  character 
made  the  beholder  content  to  forget  even  the  promise  of 
her  riper  years.  I  do  not  think  she  was  what  the  world 
calls  handsome.  I  sometimes  distrust  my  judgment  in  the 
matter  of  female  beauty  ;  indeed,  some  of  my  candid  friends 
have  told  me  that  I  had  no  judgment  in  such  things.  Well, 
as  I  was  saying,  Josey  was  not  remarkable  for  personal 
beauty  —  in  fact,  I  think  I  remember  some  persons  of 
her  own  sex  who  thought  her  "  very  plain  "  —  "  positively 
homely  "  —  and  wondered  what  there  was  attractive  about 
her.     There  are  circumatances  under  which  I  should  not 


274  AOUECHBEK. 

have  hesitated  to  attribute  such  remarks  to  motives  of  envy 
and  jealousy ;  but  as  they  came  from  girls  whose  attractions 
of  every  kind  were  far  below  those  of  the  gentle  creature 
whom  they  delighted  to  criticise,  how  can  I  account  for 
them  ?  Josey's  complexion  was  dark  —  her  forehead,  like 
those  of  the  best  models  of  female  comeliness  among  the 
ancients,  low.  Her  teeth  were  pearly  and  uniform,  and  her 
clear,  dark  eyes  seemed  to  reflect  the  happiness  and  hope 
which  were  the  companions  of  her  youth.  Her  beauty 
was  not  of  that  kind  which  consists  in  mere  regularity  of 
features  ;  it  was  far  superior  to  that.  You  could  discern 
under  those  traits,  none  of  which  were  conspicuous,  a  com- 
bination of  mental  and  social  qualities  which  were  far  above 
the  fleeting  charms  that  delight  so  many,  and  which  age, 
instead  of  destroying,  would  increase  and  perfect.  She  was 
quiet  and  gentle,  without  being  dull  or  moody ;  light-hearted 
and  cheery,  without  being  frivolous ;  and  witty,  without 
being  pert  or  conceited.  Her  unaffected  goodness  of  heart 
found  many  an  opportunity  of  exercise.  I  often  heard  of 
her  among  the  poor,  and  among  those  who  needed  words 
of  consolation  even  more  than  the  necessaries  of  life.  It 
was  her  delight  to  intercede  with  the  magistrate  who  had 
inflicted  a  punishment  on  some  disorderly  brother  of  one 
of  her  poor  clients,  and  to  obtain  his  pardon  by  promising 
to  watch  over  him  and  insure  his  future  good  behaviour ; 
and  there  were  very  few,  among  the  most  reckless,  who 
were  not  restrained  by  the  thought  that  their  offences 
would  give  pain  to  the  kind-hearted  girl  who  had  so  will- 
ingly become  their  protector. 

During  the  months  that  I  lived  at  Hampstead  my  inter- 
course with  that  excellent  family  was  as  familiar  as  if  I  had 
been  one  of  their  own  kindred.  A  little  attack  of  rheuma- 
tism, which  confined  me  to  my  lodging  for  a  fortnight  or 
three  weeks,  proved  the  constancy  of  their  friendship.     The 


GIRLHOOD   AND  GIRLS.  275 

old  gentleman  came  daily  to  see  me  —  told  me  all  the  news 
from  the  city,  and  read  to  me  ;  the  mother  sent  me  some  of 
her  favourite  books  ;  and  Josey  came  to  get  assistance  in 
her  Latin  and  French,  and  brought  me  sundry  little  pots 
of  grape  jelly  and  other  preserves,  which  tasted  all  the 
sweeter  for  being  the  work  of  her  fair  hands.  It  was  a  sad 
parting  when  I  was  called  away  to  America  —  sad  for  me  ; 
for  I  told  them  that  I  hoped  that  my  absence  from  England 
would  be  but  temporary,  when  I  felt  inwardly  that  it  might 
extend  to  several  years. 

Two  or  three  months  after  my  arrival  at  home,  I  received 
a  letter  from  the  old  gentleman,  written  in  his  deliberate, 
round,  clerk-like  style,  informing  me  of  his  wife's  death. 
A  note  was  enclosed  from  Josey,  in  which  she  described 
with  her  pencil  the  spot  where  her  mother  was  buried  in 
the  old  churchyard,  and  told  me  of  her  progress  in  her 
studies.  More  than  a  year  passed  by  without  my  hearing 
from  them  at  all,  two  or  three  of  my  letters  to  them  having 
miscarried.  Nearly  seven  years  elapsed  before  I  visited 
England  again.  Two  years  before  that,  I  had  read  the 
decease  of  the  old  gentleman,  in  a  stray  London  newspaper. 
I  had  written  to  Josey,  sympathizing  with  her  in  her  deso- 
lation, but  had  received  no  answer.  So,  the  day  after  my 
arrival  in  London,  I  determined  to  make  a  search  for  the 
beloved  Josey.  I  went  to  Hampstead,  and  my  heart  beat 
quicker  as  I  approached  the  cottage  where  I  had  spent  so 
many  happy  hours.  My  throat  felt  a  little  choky,  as  I 
recognized  the  neat  bit  of  hedge  before  the  door,  the  grace- 
ful vine  which  overhung  it,  and  the  familiar  arrangement 
of  the  flower  pots  in  the  frames  outside  the  windows ;  but 
my  hopes  received  a  momentary  check  when  I  found  a 
strange  name  on  the  plate  above  the  knocker.  I  knocked, 
and  inquired  concerning  the  former  occupants  of  the  house. 
After  a  severe  eifort  to  overcome  the  Boeotian  stupidity  of 


276  AGUECHEEK. 

the  housemaid,  she  ushered  me  into  the  little  breakfast 
room,  and  said  she  would  "  call  her  missus."  Almost  before 
I  had  time  to  look  about  me,  Josey  entered  the  room.  The 
little  girl  whose  Latin  exercises  I  had  corrected,  and  who 
had  always  lived  in  my  memory  as  she  appeared  in  those 
days,  suddenly  came  before  me 

"  A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still  and  bright 
"With  something  of  an  angel  light." 

Yet  she  was  hardly  changed  at  all.  She  had  lost  none  of 
those  charming  qualities  which  had  made  the  thought  of 
her  precious  to  me  during  long  years  of  absence.  She  had 
gained  the  maturity  and  dignity  of  womanhood  without 
losing  any  of  the  simplicity  and  light-heartedness  of  girl- 
hood. She  was  married.  Her  husband  was  a  literary  man 
of  considerable  reputation.  Though  only  in  middle  age,  he 
was  a  great  sufferer  with  the  gout.  He  was,  generally 
speaking,  a  patient  man ;  but  I  found,  after  I  became  inti- 
mate with  him,  that  his  pains  sometimes  made  him  express 
himself  with  a  force  of  diction  somewhat  in  advance  of  the 
religious  prejudices  of  his  gentle  Josey,  who  tended  him 
and  ministered  to  his  wants  like  an  angel,  as  she  was.  But 
'  excuse  me  for  wandering  so  far  from  my  theme.  To  make 
a  long  story  short,  Josey  went  to  Italy  with  her  husband, 
who  had  been  ordered  thither  by  his  physicians,  and  I  never 
saw  her  afterwards.  She  deposited  her  husband's  remains 
in  the  cemetery  where  those  of  Shelley  and  Keats  repose, 
and  found  for  two  or  three  years  a  consolation  for  her  be-, 
reaved  spirit  in  residence  in  that  city  which  more  than 
all  others  proclaims  to  our  unwilling  hearts  the  vanity  and 
transitoriness  of  this  world's  hopes,  and  the  glory  of  the 
unseen  eternal.  Years  after,  I  met  one  of  her  husband's 
friends  in  Paris,  who  told  me  that  some  four  years  after  his 


GIRLHOOD   AND   GIRLS.  277 

death,  she  had  entered  a  convent  of  a  religious  order 
devoted  to  the  reclaiming  of  the  degraded  of  her  sex,  in 
Brussels.  There  she  had  found  a  fitting  occupation  for  the 
natural  benevolence  of  her  heart,  and  the  peace  which  the 
world  could  not  give.  She  had  concealed  the  glory  of  her 
good  works  under  her  vow  of  obedience  —  her  personality 
was  hidden  under  the  common  habit  of  her  Order  —  the 
very  name  which  was  so  dear  to  me  had  been  exchanged 
for  another  on  the  day  that  saw  her  covered  with  the  white 
veil  of  the  novice.  I  was  about  returning  to  England  from 
the  continent  when  I  heard  this,  and  I  resolved  to  take 
Belgium's  fair  capital  in  my  route.  I  found  the  convent 
readily  enough,  and  waited  in  its  uncarpeted  but  scrupu- 
lously clean  parlour  some  time  for  the  Lady  Superior.  She 
was  a  lady  of  dignified  mien,  with  the  clear  complexion, 
the  serene  brow,  and  the  dovelike  eyes  so  common  among 
nuns,  and  her  face  lighted  up,  as  she  spoke,  with  a  gentle 
smile,  which  seemed  almost  like  a  presage  of  immortality. 
I  explained  my  errand,  and  she  told  me  that  the  good  Eng- 
lish sister  had  been  dead  more  than  a  year.  The  intelli- 
gence pained  me,  and  it  gave  me  a  feeling  of  self-reproach 
to  notice  that  the  nun,  who  had  been  with  her  in  her  last 
hour,  spoke  of  her  as  if  she  had  merely  passed  into  another 
part  of  the  convent  we  were  in.  The  Superior,  percei\  ing 
my  emotion,  conducted  me  through  the  garden  of  the  con- 
vent to  a  shady  comer  of  the  grounds,  where  there  were 
several  graves.  She  stopped  before  a  mound,  over  which 
a  rose  bush  bent  affectionately,  as  if  its  white  blossoms 
craved  something  of  the  purity  which  was  enshrined  be- 
neath it  At  its  head  was  a  simple  wooden  cross,  on  which 
was  inscribed  the  name  of  "  Sister  Helen  Agnes,"  the  date 
of  her  death,  and  the  common  supplication  that  she  might 
rest  in  peace ;  and  that  was  the  only  memorial  of  Josey 
that  remained  to  me. 
24 


278  AGUECHEEK. 

I  have  not  forgotten,  dear  reader,  that  I  am  writing 
about  girls ;  but  having  brought  forward  one  who  always 
seemed  to  me  to  be  about  as  near  perfection  as  it  is  vouch- 
safed to  poor  humanity  to  approach,  I  could  not  help  follow- 
ing her  to  the  end,  and  showing  how  she  went  from  a 
beautiful  girlhood  to  a  still  more  beautiful  womanhood,  and 
a  death  which  all  of  us  might  envy ;  and  how  lovely  and 
harmonious  was  her  whole  career.  For  I  feel  that  the  con- 
sideration of  the  contrast  which  most  of  the  young  female 
readers  of  these  pages  will  discover  between  themselves 
and  Josey,  will  do  them  some  good. 

I  do  not  know  of  a  more  quietly  funny  sight  than  a 
group  of  school-girls,  all  talking  as  fast  as  their  tongues  can 
wag,  (forty-woman  power,)  and  clinging  inextricably  together 
like  a  parcel  of  macaroni,  d  la  Napolitaine.  Their  inde- 
pendence is  quite  refreshing.  Lady  Blessington  in  her 
diamonds  never  descended  the  grand  staircase  at  Covent 
Garden  Opera  House  with  half  the  consciousness  of  making 
a  sensation,  that  you  may  notice  in  these  school-girls  when- 
ever you  take  your  walks  abroad.  It  is  delightful  to  see 
them  step  off  so  proudly,  and  look  you  in  the  face  so  coolly, 
thinking  all  the  time  of  just  nothing  at  all.  Their  bold- 
ness is  the  boldness  of  innocence  ;  for  perfect  modesty  does 
not  even  know  how  to  blush.  How  vain  they  grow  as  they 
advance  in  their  teens !  How  careful  they  are  that  the 
crinoline  "sticks  out"  properly  before  they  venture  on  the 
road  to  school !  If  Mother  Goose  (of  blessed  memory) 
could  take  a  look  into  this  world  now,  she  would  wish  to 
revise  her  ancient  rhyme  to  her  patrons,  — 

"  Come  ■with  a  whoop  —  come  with  a  call,"  &c.,— 

for  she  would  find  that  it  is  now  their  custom  to  come  with 
a  hoop  when  they  come  for  a  call. 

When  unhappy  Romeo  stands  in  old  Capulel's  garden, 


GIRLHOOD  AND  GIRLS.  279 

under  the  pale  beams  of  the  "  envious  moon,"  and  watches 
the  unconscious  Juliet  upon  the  balcony,  he  utters,  in  the 
course  of  his  incoherent  soliloquial  apostrophe,  these  remark- 
able words  concerning  that  interesting  young  person :  — 

"  She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing." 

I  have  seen  many  young  ladies  of  Juliet's  time  of  life  in 
my  day  of  whom  the  same  thing  might  be  said.  They  indeed 
speak,  yet  say  nothing.  Yet  take  them  on  such  a  subject 
as  the  trimming  of  a  new  bonnet  for  Easter  Sunday,  or  any 
of  those  entertaining  topics  more  or  less  connected  with  the 
adornment  of  their  persons,  and  how  voluble  they  are !  To 
the  stronger  sex,  which  of  course  cares  nothing  about  dress, 
being  entirely  free  from  vanity,  the  terms  used  in  their 
never-ending  colloquies  on  such  themes  are  mere  unmean- 
ing words  ;  but  I  must  do  the  gentler  side  of  humanity  the 
justice  to  say  that  they  are  not  all  vanity,  as  their  fathers 
and  husbands  find  to  their  dismay,  when  the  quarterly  bills 
come  in,  that  gimp,  and  flounces,  and  trimmings  generally, 
have  a  real,  tangible  existence. 

How  sentimental  they  are  !  In  my  young  days  albums 
were  all  the  rage  among  young  ladies  ;  but  now  they  seem 
to  be  somewhat  out  of  date,  and  young  ministers  have  taken 
their  place.  What  pains  will  they  not  take  to  get  a  bow 
from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Simkins !  They  swarm  around  him 
after  service,  like  flies  around  the  bung  of  a  molasses  cask. 
Raphael  never  had  such  a  face  as  his ;  Massillon  never 
preached  as  he  does.  "What  a  wilderness  of  worsted  work 
are  they  not  willing  to  travel  over  for  his  sake  !  How  do 
they  exhaust  their  inventive  faculties  in  the  search  after 
new  patterns  for  lamp  mats,  watch  cases,  pen  wipers,  and 
slippers  to  encase  the  feet  at  which  they  delight  to  sit ! 
But  when  Simkins  marries  old  Thompson's  youngest  daugh- 
ter and  a  snug  property,  he  finds  a  sad  abatement  in  his 


280  AGDECHEEK. 

popularity.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Jenkins,  a  young  preacher  with 
a  face  every  whit  as  milk-and-watery  as  his  own,  succeeds 
to  the  throne  he  occupied,  and  reigns  in  his  stead  among 
the  volatile  devotees  ;  and  Simkins  then  sees  that  his  popu- 
larity was  no  more  an  evidence  of  the  favour  his  preaching 
of  the  gospel  found  among  those  thoughtless  young  people 
than  was  the  popularity  of  the  good-looking  light  comedian, 
after  whom  the  girls  ran  as  madly  as  they  did  after  his 
own  white  neckerchief  and  nicely-brushed  black  frock  coat. 

Exaggeration  is  one  of  the  great  faults  of  girlhood. 
Whatever  meets  their  eyes  is  either  "  splendid  "  or  "  hor- 
rid." They  delight  to  exaggerate  their  likes  and  dislikes. 
Self-restraint  seems  to  be  a  term  not  contained  in  their  lex- 
icon. They  take  a  momentary  fancy  to  a  young  man,  and 
flatter  him  with  their  smiles  until  some  new  face  takes  his 
place  in  their  fleeting  memory.  In  this  way  many  young 
hearts  are  frittered  away  in  successive  flirtations  before 
their  possessors  have  reached  womanhood.  But  it  would 
be  wrong  to  confine  action  from  mere  blind  impulse  and 
exaggeration  to  young  girls  alone.  I  think  it  is  St.  Paul 
"who  gives  us  some  good  counsel  about  "  speaking  the  truth 
in  love."  I  fear  that  very  few  victims  of  the  tender  passion, 
fit)m  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  down  to  Petrarch  and  Laura, 
and  from  the  latter  couple  down  to  Mr.  Smith  with  Miss 
Brown  hanging  on  his  arm,  —  who  haf  e  not  sadly  needed 
the  advice  of  the  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles.  I  have  seen 
very  few  people  in  my  day  who  really  speak  the  truth  in 
love.  Therefore  I  will  not  blame  girls  for  a  fault  which  is 
common  to  all  mankind. 

Impulse  is  commonly  supposed  to  be  inconsistent  with 
cunning ;  but  in  most  girls  I  think  the  two  things  are  sin- 
gularly combined.  I  am  told  that  there  is  an  academy  in 
this  city,  frequented  by  many  young  women,  known  as  the 
School  of  Design.     The  fact  is  a  gratifying  one  to  me  ;  for 


GIRLHOOD   AND   GIRLS.  281 

my  observation  of  girlish  nature  had  led  me  to  suppose  that 
there  were  very  few  indeed  of  the  young  ladies  of  these 
days  who  required  any  tuition  in  the  arts  of  design.  I  hail 
the  fact  as  a  good  omen  for  the  sex.  Action  from  impulse 
carries  its  young  victims  to  the  extremes  of  good  and  evil. 
Queen  Dido  is  a  fair  type  of  the  majority  of  her  sex.  De- 
feated in  their  hopes,  they  are  willing  to  make  a  funeral 
pile  of  all  that  remains  to  them.  But  there  is  a  spirit  of 
generosity  in  them  which  does  not  find  a  place  in  the  hearts 
of  men.  It  was  the  part  of  Eve  to  bring  death  into  this 
world,  and  all  our  woe,  by  her  inquisitiveness  and  credulity ; 
but  it  was  reserved  for  Adam  to  inaugurate  the  meanness 
of  mankind  by  laying  all  the  blame  to  his  silly  little  wife. 
The  accusation  ought  to  have  blistered  Adam's  cowardly 
tongue. 

But  I  am  making  a  long  preachment,  and  yet  I  have  said 
very  little.  I  must  leave  my  young  friends,  however,  to 
draw  their  own  lessons  from  the  portrait  I  have  given  of 
one  whose  perfections  would  far  outweigh  the  silliness  and 
vanity  of  a  generation  of  girls.  Let  them  take  the  gentle 
Josey  as  tEe  model  of  their  youth,  and  they  will  not  wish 
to  sculpture  their  later  career  after  any  less  perfect  shape. 
There  will  then  be  fewer  heartless  flirts,  fewer  vain  exhib- 
itors of  the  works  of  the  milliner  and  dressmaker  parading 
the  streets,  and  more  true  women  presiding  over  the  homes 
of  America.  The  imitation  of  her  virtues  will  be  found  a 
better  preservative  of  beauty  than  any  eau  lustrale ;  for  it 
will  create  a  beauty  which  "  time's  effacing  fingers  "  are 
powerless  to  destroy,  and  give  to  those  who  practise  it  a 
serene  and  lovely  old  age,  whose  recollection  of  the  past, 
instead  of  awakening  any  self-reproach,  shall  be  a  source 
of  perpetual  benediction. 
24* 


SHAKESPEARE   AND    HIS    COMMENTATORS. 

It  was  a  favourite  wish  of  the  beneficent  Caligula  tiiat 
all  mankind  had  but  one  neck,  that  he  might  finish  them  off 
at  a  single  chop.  It  would  ill  comport  with  my  known 
modesty,  were  I  to  lay  claim  to  any  thing  like  the  all- 
embracing  humanity  of  the  old  Roman  philanthropist ;  but 
I  must  acknowledge  that  I  have  frequently  felt  inclined  to 
apply  his  pious  aspiration  to  the  commentators  on  Shake- 
speare. Impatience  is  not  my  prevailing  weakness ;  but 
these  pestilent  annotators  have  often  been  instrumental  in 
convincing  me  that  I  am  no  stoic.  I  have  frequently  re- 
gretted the  days  of  my  youth,  when  no  envious  commentary 
obscured  the  brilliancy  of  that  genius  which  has  consecrated 
the  language  through  which  it  finds  utterance,  and  made  it 
venerable  to  the  scholars  of  all  lands  and  ages.  My  love 
of  Shakespeare,  like  the  gout  which  has  been  stinging  my 
right  foot  all  the  morning,  is  hereditary.  My  revered 
grandmother  was  very  fond  of  solid  English  literature. 
She  had  not  had,  it  is  true,  the  advantages  which  the  young 
people  of  the  present  day  rejoice  in ;  she  had  not  f^tudicd 
in  any  of  those  seminaries  which  polish  off  an  education  in 
a  most  Arabian-Nightsy  style  of  expedition,  and  send  a 
young  lady  home  in  the  middle  of  her  teens,  accomplished 
in  innumerous  ologies,  and  knowing  little  or  nothing  that  is 
really  useful,  or  that  will  attract  lior  to  intellectual  pursuits 
•or  pleasure  in  after  life.  She  Lad  acquired  what  is  infi- 
nitely better  than  the  superficial  omniscience  which  is  so 
much  cultivated  in  these  days.  The  more  active  duties  of 
life  pleased  her  not ;  and  Shakespeare  was  the  never-failing 

(282) 


SHAKESPEARE   AND    HIS   COMMENTATORS.  283 

resource  of  her  leisure  hours.  Mr.  Addison's  Spectator  was 
for  her  a  "  treasure  of  contentment,  a  mine  of  delight, 
and,  with  regard  to  style,  the  best  book  in  the  world."  I 
shall  never  forget  that  happy  day  (anterior  even  to  the 
jacket  era  of  my  life)  when  she  took  me  upon  her  knee,  and 
read  to  me  the  speeches  of  MaruUus,  and  Mark  Antony, 
and  Brutus.  In  that  hour  I  became  as  sincere  a  devotee 
as  ever  bent  down  before  the  shrine  of  Shakespeare's  genius. 
Nor  has  that  innocent  fanaticism  abated  any  of  its  ardour 
under  the  weight  laid  upon  me  by  increasing  years.  The 
theatre  has  lost  many  of  its  old  charms  for  me.  The  friend- 
ships of  youth  —  the  only  enduring  intimacies,  for  our 
palms  grow  callous  in  the  promiscuous  intercourse  of  the 
world,  and  cannot  easily  receive  new  impressions  —  have 
either  been  terminated  by  that  inexorable  power  whose 
chilling  touch  is  merciless  alike  to  love  and  enmity,  or  have 
been  interfered  with  by  the  varying  pursuits  of  life.  But 
Shakespeare  still  maintains  his  wonted  sway,  and  my  loyalty 
to  him  has  not  been  disturbed  by  any  of  the  revolutionary 
movements  which  have  made  such  changes  in  most  other 
things.  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper  has  written,  but  I  am  so 
old-fashioned  in  my  prejudices  that  I  find  myself  constantly 
turning  to  my  Shakespeare,  in  preference  even  to  that  gifled 
and  proverbially  philosophic  bard. 

But  I  am  wandering.  From  the  day  I  have  mentioned, 
Robinson  Crusoe  was  obliged  to  abdicate,  and  England's 
"  monarch  bard  "  (as  Mr.  Sprague  calls  Anne  Hathaway's 
husband)  reigned  in  his  stead.  I  first  devoured  the  Julius 
Caesar.  I  say  "  devoured,"  for  no  other  word  will  express 
the  eager  earnestness  with  which  I  read.  The  last  time  I 
read  that  play  through,  it  was  "  within  a  bowshot  where  the 
Caesars  dwelt,"  and  but  a  few  minutes  walk  from  the  palace 
which  now  holds  great  Pompey's  statua,  at  whose  foot  the 
mighty  Julius  fell.     Increase  of  appetite  grew  rapidly  by 


284  AGUECHEEK. 

what  it  fed  on,  and  I  was  not  long  in  learning  as  much  about 
the  black-clad  prince,  the  homeless  king,  the  exacting  usurer, 
the  fat  knight  and  his  jolly  companions,  the  remorseful 
Thane,  and  generous,  jealous  Moor,  as  I  knew  about  Brutus 
and  the  other  red  republican  assassins  of  imperial  Rome. 
My  love  of  Shakespeare  was  greatly  edified  by  a  friendship 
which  I  formed  in  my  earliest  foreign  journeyings.  It  was 
before  the  days  of  railways,  —  which,  convenient  as  they 
are,  have  robbed  travelling  of  half  its  zest,  by  rendering  it 
80  common.  I  had  been  making  a  Jittle  tour  through  the 
north  of  France.  I  had  admired  the  white  caps  and  pious 
simplicity  of  the  peasants  of  Normandy,  and  had  drunk  in 
that  exaltation  of  soul  which  the  lofty  nave  of  the  majestic 
Cathedral  of  Amiens  always  imparts,  and  was  about  return- 
ing to  Paris,  when  a  rheumatic  attack  arrested  my  progress 
and  prolonged  my  stay  in  the  pleasant  city  of  Douai.  I 
there  met  accidentally  with  an  English  monk  of  that  grand 
old  Benedictine  order,  whose  history  for  more  than  twelve 
centuries  has  been  the  history  of  civilization,  and  literature, 
and  religion.  He  was  descended  from  one  of  those  old 
families  which  refused  to  modify  their  creed  at  the  demand 
of  a  divorce-seeking  king.  He  was  a  man  of  clear  intellect 
and  fascinating  simplicity  of  character.  He  seemed  to  carry 
sunshine  with  him  wherever  he  went.  He  occupied  a  pro- 
fessorial chair  in  the  English  College  attached  to  the  Bene- 
dictine Monastery  at  Douai,  and  when  his  class  hours  were 
ended,  he  daily  came  to  visit  me.  His  sensible  and  sprightly 
conversation  did  more  towards  untying  the  rheumatic  knots 
in  my  poor  shoulder,  than  all  the  pills  and  lotions  for  which 
M.  h  Medecin  charged  me  so  roundly.  When  I  visited  him 
in  his  cell,  I  found  that  a  well-worn  copy  of  Shakespeare 
was  the  only  companion  of  his  Breviary,  his  Aquinas  and 
St.  Bernard  on  his  study  table.  He  loved  Shakespeare  for 
himself  alone.     He  never  used  him  as  a  lay  figure  on  which 


SHAKESPEARE   AND   HIS    COMMENTATORS.  285 

he  might  display  the  drapery  of  a  pedant.  He  hated  com- 
mentators as  heartily  as  a  man  so  sincerely  religious  can 
hate  any  thing  except  sin,  and  was  as  earnest  in  his  predilec- 
tion for  Shakespeare,  "  without  note  or  comment,"  as  his 
dissenting  fellow-countrymen  would  have  wished  him  to  be 
for  a  similar  edition  of  the  only  other  inspired  book  in  the 
world.  He  had  his  theories,  however,  concerning  Shake- 
speare's characters,  and  we  often  talked  them  over  together ; 
but  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  never  published 
any  of  them.  I  always  regarded  this  fact  as  a  splendid 
evidence  of  the  entireness  of  his  self-abnegation,  and  of  his 
extraordinary  advancement  in  the  path  of  religious  perfec- 
tion. Many  have  taken  the  three  monastic  vows  by  which 
he  was  bound,  and  have  lived  up  to  them  with  conscientious 
fidelity ;  but  few  scholars  have  studied  Shakespeare  as  he 
did,  and  yet  resisted  the  temptation  to  tell  the  world  all 
about  it  in  a  book. 

Mousing  the  other  day  in  the  library  of  a  venerable 
citizen  of  Boston,  who  is  no  less  skilled  in  the  gospel  (let  us 
hope)  than  in  the  law,  I  stumbled  over  a  seedy-looking  folio 
containing  A  Treatise  of  Original  Sinne,  by  one  Anthony 
Burgesse,  who  flourished  in  England  something  more  than 
two  centuries  ago.  One  of  the  discoloured  fly-leaves  of  this 
entertaining  tome  informed  me,  in  a  hand-writing  which 
resembled  a  dilapidated  rail-fence  looked  at  from  the  window 
of  an  express  train,  that  Jacobus  Keith  mepossedit,  An.  Dom. 
1655;  and  also  bore  this  inscription,  so  pertinent  to  my 
present  theme :  "  Expositors  are  wise  when  they  are  not 
otherwise."  I  feel  that  it  is  safe  to  leave  my  readers  to 
make  the  application  of  this  apothegm  to  the  Shakespearean 
annotators  of  their  acquaintance,  so  few  of  whom  are  wise, 
so  many  otherwise.  I  think  it  was  the  late  Mr.  HazHti 
who  said  (and  if  it  was  not,  it  ought  to  have  been)  that  if 
you  desire  to  know  to  what  sublimity  human  genius  is 


286  AGUECHEEE. 

capable  of  ascending,  you  must  read  Shakespeare ;  but 
that  if  you  seek  to  ascertain  to  what  a  depth  of  imbecility 
the  intellect  of  man  may  be  brought  down,  you  must  read 
his  commentators. 

Notwithstanding  the  low  estimate  which  I  am  inclined  to 
place  upon  the  labours  of  the  majority  of  the  commentators 
on  Shakespeare,  still  I  have  oflen  felt  a  strong  temptation 
to  enroll  myself  among  them.  Not  all  their  stupidity  in 
explaining  things  which  are  clear  to  the  meanest  capacity, 
not  all  their  pedantry  in  elucidating  matters  which  are  sim- 
ply inexplicable,  not  all  their  inordinate  voluminousness, 
could  quench  my  ambition  to  fasten  my  roll  of  waste 
paper  to  the  bob  (already  so  unwieldy)  of  the  Shakespearean 
kite.  Others  have  soared  into  fame  by  such  means ;  why 
should  not  I  ?  We  ought  not  to  study  Shakespeare  so 
many  years  for  nothing,  and  I  feel  that  a  sacred  duty 
would  be  neglected  if  the  result  of  my  researches  were 
withheld  from  my  suffering  fellow-students.  But  let  me  be 
more  merciful  than  other  commentators  ;  let  me  confine 
my  remarks  to  a  single  play.  From  that  one  you  may 
learn  the  tenor  of  my  theories  concerning  the  others ;  and 
if  you  wish  for  another  specimen,  I  shall  consider  that  I 
have  achieved  an  unheard-of  triumph  in  this  department  of 
literature. 

The  tragedy  of  Hamlet  has  always  been  regarded  as  one 
of  the  most  creditable  of  Shakespeare's  performances.  It 
needs  no  new  commendation  from  me.  Dramatic  composi- 
tion has  made  great  progress  within  the  two  hundred  and 
sixty  years  that  have  elapsed  since  Hamlet  was  written,  yet 
few  better  things  are  produced  nowadays.  We  may  as 
well  acknowledge  the  humiliating  fact  that  Hamlet,  with  all 
its  age,  is  every  whit  as  good  as  if  it  had  been  written 
since  Lady  Day,  and  were  announced  on  the  playbills  of 
to-morrow  night,  with  one  of  Mr.  Bourcicault's  most  elo- 


8HAKESPEABE  AND   HIS  COMMENTATORS.         287 

quent  and  elaborate  prefaces.  The  character  of  Hamlet 
has  been  much  discussed,  but,  with  all  due  respect  for  the 
genius  of  those  who  have  fatigued  their  reader  with  their 
treatment  of  the  subject,  I  would  humbly  suggest  that  they 
are  all  wrong.  Hamlet  resembles  a  picture  which  has  been 
scoured,  and  retouched,  and  varnished,  and  restored,  until 
you  can  hardly  see  any  thing  of  the  original.  Critics  and 
commentators  have  bedaubed  the  original  character  so 
thoroughly,  and  those  credulous  people  who  rejoice  that 
Chatham's  language  is  their  mother  tongue,  have  heard  so 
much  of  their  estimates  of  Hamlet's  character,  that  they 
receive  them  on  faith,  flattering  themselves  all  the  while 
that  they  are  paying  homage  to  the  Hamlet  of  Shakespeare. 
High-flown  philosophy  exerts  its  powers  upon  the  theme, 
and  Goethe  gives  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  dramatist  wished 
to  portray  the  effects  of  a  great  action,  imposed  as  a  duty 
upon  a  mind  too  feeble  for  its  accomplishment,  and .  com- 
pares it  to  an  oak  planted  in  a  china  vase,  proper  to  receive 
only  the  most  delicate  flowers,  and  which  flies  to  pieces  as 
soon  as  the  roots  begin  to  strike  out. 

Now  let  us  drop  all  this  metaphysical  and  poetical  cant, 
and  go  back  to  the  play  itself.  Shakespeare  will  prove  his 
own  best  expositor,  if  we  read  him  with  docile  minds,  hav- 
ing previously  instructed  ourselves  concerning  the  history 
of  the  time  of  which  he  wrote.  There  is  a  tradition  com- 
mon in  the  north  of  Ireland  that  Hamlet's  father  was  a 
native  of  that  country,  named  Howndale,  and  that  he  fol- 
lowed the  trade  of  a  tailor ;  that  he  was  captured  by  the 
Danes,  in  one  of  their  expeditions  against  that  fair  island, 
and  carried  to  Jutland ;  that  he  married  and  set  up  in  busi- 
ness again  in  that  cold  region,  but  that  he  afterwards  for- 
sook the  sartorial  for  the  regal  line,  by  usurping  the  throne 
of  Denmark.  The  tradition  represents  him  to  have  been  a 
man  of  violent  character,  a  hard  drinker,  and  altogether  a 


288  AOUECHEEK. 

most  unprincipled  and  unamiable  person,  though  an  excel- 
lent tailor.  Now,  if  we  take  the  old  chronicle  of  Saxo 
Graoiraaticus,  {Historia  Danonim,)  from  which  Shake- 
speare drew  the  plot  for  liis  tragedy,  we  shall  find  there 
little  that  does  not  harmonize  with  this  tradition.  Saxo 
Grammaticus  tells  us  that  Hamlet  was  the  son  of  Horwen- 
dal,  who  was  a  famous  pirate  of  Jutland,  whom  the  king,' 
Huric,  feared  so  much,  that,  to  propitiate  him,  he  was 
obliged  to  appoint  him  governor  of  Jutland,  and  afterwards 
to  give  him  his  daughter  Gertrude  in  marriage.  Thus  he 
obtained  the  throne.  The  old  Irish  name,  Howndale, 
might  easily  have  been  corrupted  into  Horwendal  by  the 
jaw-breaking  Northmen,  and  for  the  rest,  the  Danish  chron- 
icle and  the  Irish  tradition  are  perfectly  consistent.  That 
there  was  frequent  communication  at  that  early  period  be- 
tween Denmark  and  Ireland,  I  surely  need  not  take  the 
trouble  to  prove.  All  the  early  chronicles  of  both  of  those 
countries  bear  witness  to  it.  It  was  to  the  land  evangelized 
by  St.  Patrick  that  Denmark  was  indebted  for  the  blessings 
of  education  and  the  Christian  faith.  But  the  visits  of  the 
Danes  were  not  dictated  by  any  holy  zeal  for  the  salvation 
or  mental  advancement  of  their  benefactors,  if  we  may 
believe  all  the  stories  of  their  piratical  expeditions.  An 
Irish  monk  of  the  great  monastery  of  Banchor,  who  wrote 
very  good  Latin  for  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  alludes  to 
this  period  in  his  country's  history  in  a  poem,  one  line  of 
which  is  sometimes  quoted,  even  now :  — 

Timeo  Danaos  ef  dona  ferentes. 
\  "Time  was,  O  Danes,  we  fedred  your  gifts." 

The  great  Danish  poet,  CEhlenschlaeger,  makes  frequent 
allu'sions  in  the  course  of  his  epic,  The  Gods  of  the  North, 
to  the  relations  that  once  existed  between  Denmark  and 
Ireland,  and  to  the  fact  that  his  native  land  received  from 


SHAKESPEARE   AND   HIS   COMMENTATORS.  289 

Ireland  the  custom  of  imbibing  spirituous  liquors  in  large 

quantities. 

Hamlet's  Irish  parentage  would  naturally  be  concealed 

as  much  as  possible  by  him,  as  it  might  prejudice  his  claims 

to  the  throne  of  Denmark ;  therefore  we  can  hardly  expect 

to  find  the  ancient  legend  confirmed  in  the  play,  except  in 

a  casual  manner.     The  free,  outspoken,  Irish  nature  would 

make  itself  known  occasionally.     Thus  we  find  that  when 

Horatio  tells  him  that  "  there's  no  offence,"  he  rebukes  him 

with 

"  Yes,  by  St.  Patrick,  but  there  is,  Horatio  !  " 

There  certainly  needs  no  ghost  come  from  the  grave  to  tell 
us  that  no  true-born  Scandinavian  would  have  sworn  in  an 
unguarded  moment  by  the  Apostle  of  Ireland.  Again, 
when  Harriet  thinks  of  killing  his  uncle,  the  wrongful 
king,  he  apostrophizes  himself  by  the  name  which  he  prob- 
ably bore  when  he  assisted  his  father  (whose  death  he 
wishes  to  avenge)  in  his  shop  in  Jutland :  — 

"Now,  might  I  do  it,  Pat,  now  he  is  praying." 

Then,  too,  he  speaks  to  Horatio  of  the  "funeral  baked 
meats "  coldly  furnishing  forth  the  marriage  table  at  his 
mother's  second  espousal.  The  custom  of  baking  meats  is 
as  well  known  to  be  of  Irish  origin,  as  that  of  roasting  them 
is  to  be  peculiar  to  the  northern  nations  of  continental 
Europe. 

The  frequent  allusions  in  the  course  of  the  play  to  drink- 
ing customs  not  only  prove  that  Hamlet  descended  from  that 
nation  whose  hospitality  is  its  greatest  fault,  but  that  he  and 
his  family  were  far  from  being  the  refined  and  philosophic 
people  some  of  the  commentators  would  have  us  believe. 
Thus  he  promises  his  old  companion,  — 

"  We'll  teach  you  to  drink  deep  ere  you  depart,"  — 

25 


290  AGUEGHEEK. 

which  the  most  prejudiced  person  will  freely  allow  to  be 
truly  a  Cbr^-onian  phrase.  This  frailty  of  the  family  may 
be  seen  throughout  the  play.  In  the  last  scene,  it  is  es- 
pecially apparent.  All  the  royal  family  of  Denmark  seem 
to  have  ^joined  an  intemperance  society.  The  queen  even, 
in  spite  of  her  husband's  remonstrances,  joins  in  the  carou- 
sal. Hamlet,  too,  while  he  is  dying,  starts  up  on  hearing 
Horatio  say,  "  Here's  yet  some  liquor  left,"  and  insists  upon 
the  cup  being  given  to  him.  I  know  that  it  may  be  urged, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  in  the  scene  preceding  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  the  ghost  before  Hamlet,  he  indulges  in  some 
remarks  which  would  prove  him  to  have  entertained  senti-. 
mcnts  becoming  his  compatriot,  the  noble  Father  Mathew. 
Speaking  of  the  custom  of  draining  down  such  frequent 
draughts  of  Rhenish,  he  pronounces  it  to  his  mind 

"  a  custom 
More  honoured  in  the  breach  than  the  observance." 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  occasion  on  which  this 
speech  was  uttered  was  a  solemn  one.  Under  such  super- 
natural circumstances  old  Silenus  or  the  King  of  Prussia 
himself  might  be  pardoned  for  growing  somewhat  homiletic 
on  the  subject  of  temperance.  The  conclusion  of  this  speech 
has  given  the  commentators  a  fine  chance  to  exercise  their 

ingenuity. 

"  The  dram  of  bale 
Doth  all  the  noble  substance  often  doubt 
To  his  own  scandal." 

They  have  called  it  the  "  dram  of  base,"  the  "  dram  of  eale," 
(fee,  and  then  have  been  as  much  in  the  dark  as  before. 
Some  have  thought  that  Shakespeare  intended  to  have 
written  it  "  the  dram  of  Bale,"  as  a  sly  hit  at  Dr.  John  Bale, 
the  first  Protestant  Bishop  of  Ossory  in  Ireland,  who  was 
an  unscrupulous  dram-drinker  as  well  as  dramatist,  for  he 


SHAKESPEARE   AND   HIS   COMMENTATORS.  291 

wrote  a  play  called  "  Kynge  Johan,"  which  was  reprinted 
undei*  the  editorial  care  of  my  friend,  Mr.  J.  O.  Ualliwell, 
by  the  Camden  Society,  in  1838.  But  this  attempt  to  make 
it  reflect  upon  the  Ossory  prelate  is  entirely  uncalled  for. 
A  little  research  would  have  showed  that  hale  was  a  liquor 
somewhat  resembling  our  whiskey  of  the  true  R.  G.  brand, 
the  consumption  of  which  in  the  dram-shops  of  his  country 
the  Prince  Hamlet  so  earnestly  deplored.  The  great  Danish 
philosopher,  V.  Scheerer  Homboegger,  in  his  autobiography, 
speaks  of  it,  and  says  that  like  all  the  Danes  he  prefers  it  to 
either  wine  or  ale,  or  water  even  :  Der  er  vand,  her  er  vun 
og  oel,  —  men  allested  baele  drikker  saaledes  de  Dansker. 
(Autobiog.  II.  xiii.  Ed.  Copenhag.) 

As  to  the  proofs  that  Hamlet's  family  was  closely  con- 
nected with  the  tailoring  interest,  they  are  so  thickly  scat- 
tered through  the  entire  tragedy,  and  are  so  apparent  even 
to  the  casual  reader,  that,  even  if  I  had  room,  it  would  only 
be  necessary  to  mention  a  few  of  the  principal  ones.  In 
the  very  first  scene  in  which  he  is  introduced,  Hamlet  talks 
in  an  experienced  manner  about  his  "  inky  cloak,"  "  suits  of 
solemn  black,"  "  forms  "  and  "  modes,"  and  tries  to  defend 
himself  from  the  suspicion  which  he  feels  is  attached  to  him 
by  many  of  the  courtiers,  by  saying  plainly,  "  I  know  not 
seams."  This  first  speech  of  Hamlet's  is  a  key  to  the  wanton 
insincerity  of  his  character.  His  mother  has  begged  him  to 
change  his  clothes,  —  to  "  cast  his  nighted  colour  off,"  —  and 
he  answers  her  requests  with,  "  I  shall  in  all  my  best  obey 
you,  madam  ; "  yet  it  is  notorious  that  he  heeds  not  this 
promise,  but  wears  black  to  the  end  of  his  career. 

He  repeatedly  uses  the  expressions  which  a  tailor  would 
naturally  employ.  His  figures  of  speech  frequently  smell 
of  the  shop.  As,  for  instance,  he  says  to  Rozencrantz  and 
Guildenstern,  "  The  appurtenance  of  welcome  is  fashion  and 
ceremony.     Let  me  comply  wil!»  you  in  this  garb ; "  in  the 


292  AOUECHEEK. 

scene  preceding  the  play  he  declares  that,  though  the  devil 
himself  wear  black,  he'll  "  have  a  suit  of  sables."  In  the 
interview  with  his  mother,  who  may  be  supposed  not  to 
have  forgotten  the  early  history  of  the  family,  he  uses  such 
figures  with  still  greater  freedom :  — 

"  That  monster  custom  who  all  sense  doth  eat 
Of  habit's  devil,  is  angel  yet  in  this ; 
That  to  the  use  of  actions  fair  and  good 
He  likewise  gives  a.  frock  or  livery. 
That  aptly  is  put  on." 

In  his  instruction  to  the  players  he  speaks  of  tearing  "  a 
passion  to  tatters,  to  very  rags,"  and  says  of  certain  actors 
that  when  he  saw  them  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  "  some  of 
nature's  Journeymen  had  made  men  and  not  made  them 
well."     In  the  fourth  act,  he  calls  Rosencrantz  a  spo7ige. 

What  better  evidence  of  the  skill  of  Hamlet  and  his  father 
in  their  common  trade  can  we  have  than  that  affordod  by 
the  fair  Ophelia,  who  speaks  of  the  Prince  as  "  the  glass  of 
fashion  and  the  mould  of  form "  ?  In  the  chamber  scene 
with  his  mother,  Hamlet  is  taken  entirely  off  his  guard  by 
the  sudden  appearance  of  his  father's  ghost,  whom  he  apos- 
trophizes, not  in  the  s6t  phrases  which  he  used  when  Horatio 
and  Marcellus  were  by,  but  as  "  a  king  of  shreds  and  patches." 
Old  Polonius  does  not  wish  his  daughter  to  marry  a  tailor, 
but  is  too  polite  to  tell  her  all  of  his  objections  to  Lord 
Hamlet's  suit ;  so  he  cloaks  his  reasons  under  these  figures 
of  speech,  instead  of  telling  her,  out  of  whole  cloth,  that 
Hamlet  is  a  tailor,  and  the  match  will  never  do :  — 

"Do  not  believe  his  vows,  for  they  are  brokers, 
Not  of  that  dye  which  there  in  vestments  ^how, 
But  implorators  of  unholy  suits,"  &c. 

Some  late  editions  of  the  Bard  make  the  second  line  of  this 
passage  read, — 

"  Not  of  that  die  which  their  investments  ,ho\v,'' 


SHAKESPEARE   AND   HIS   COMMENTATORS.  293 

which  is  as  evident  a  corruption  of  the  text  as  any  of  those 
detected  by  the  indefatigable  INIr.  Payne  Collier. 

If  any  further  proof  is  needed  of  a  matter  which  must 
be  clear  to  every  reasoning  mind,  it  may  be  found  in  that 
solemn  scene  in  which  the  Prince,  oppressed  by  the  burden 
of  a  life  embittered  and  defeated  in  its  highest  aims,  medi- 
tates suicide.  Now,  if  there  is  a  time  when  all  affectation  of 
worldly  rank  would  be  likely  to  be  forgotten  and  swallowed 
up  in  the  contemplation  of  the  terrible  deed  which  occu- 
pies the  mind,  it  is  such  a  time  as  this.  And  here  we  find 
Shakespeare  as  true  as  Nature  herself.  The  soldier,  weary 
of  life,  uses  the  sword  his  enemies  once  feared,  to  end  his 
troubles.  Hamlet's  mind  overleaps  the  interval  of  his 
princely  hfe,  and  the  weapon  which  is  most  naturally  sug- 
gested by  his  youthful  career  is  "  a  bare  bodkin." 

Had  I  not  already  written  more  than  I  intended  on  this 
subject,  I  might  go  on  with  many  other  evidences  of  the 
truth  of  my  view  of  this  remarkable  character.  I  did  wish 
also  to  show  that  Hamlet  was  a  most  disreputable  character, 
and  by  no  means  entitled  to  the  sympathy  or  admiration  of 
men.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  he  was,  even  to  his  last  hour, 
fonder  of  drink  than  became  a  prince  (except  perhaps  a 
Prince  Regent)  —  that  he  treated  Ophelia  improperly  — 
that  he  often  spoke  of  his  step-father  in  profane  terms  — 
that  he  indulged  in  the  use  of  profane  language  even  in  his 
soliloquies,  as  for  example,  — 

"  The  spirit  I  have  seen 
May  be  a  devil ;  and  the  devil  hath  power 
To  assume  a  pleasing  shape ;  yea,  and  perhaps 
Out  of  my  weakness,  and  my  melancholy, 
(As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits) 
Abuses  me  too,  —  damme !  " 

His  familiarity  with  the   players  likewise  is  an  incontro- 
vertible proof  of  his  depravity ;  for  the  theatrical  people  of 
25* 


2^  AGUECUEEK. 

Denmark  in  his  age,  were  not  what  the  players  of  our  day 
are.  They  were  too  often  people  of  loose  and  reckless 
lives,  careless  of  moral  and  social  obligations,  and  whose 
company  would  by  no  means  be  acceptable  to  a  truly  philo- 
sophic prince. 

If  this  pre-Raphaelite  sketch  of  Hamlet's  character  should 
seem  unsatisfactory,  it  can  be  filled  out  by  a  perusal  of  the 
play  itself,  if  the  reader  will  only  cast  aside  the  trammels 
which  the  commentators  have  placed  in  his  way.  It  may 
be  a  new  view  to  most  of  my  readers  ;  but  I  am  convinced 
that  the  theory,  of  which  I  have  given  an  outline,  is  fully 
as  tenable  as  many  of  the  countless  conjectural  essays  to 
which  that  matchless  drama  has  given  rise.  If  it  be  un- 
true, why,  then  we  must  conclude  that  all  similar  theories, 
though  they  may  be  sustained  by  as  many  passages  as  I 
have  adduced  in  support  of  my  Hibernico-sartorial  hy- 
pothesis, are  equally  devoid  of  a  foundation  of  common 
sense.  If  my  theory  stands,  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  hav- 
ing connected  my  name  (which  would  else  be  soon  forgot- 
ten) with  one  of  Shakespeare's  masterpieces ;  and  that  is 
all  that  any  commentator  has  ever  done.  And  if  my  theoiy 
proves  false,  it  consoles  me  to  think  that  the  splendour  of 
the  genius  which  I  so  highly  reverence  is  in  no  wise  ob- 
scured thereby  ;  for  the  stability  and  grandeur  of  tlie  temple 
cannot  be  impaired  by  the  obliteration  of  the  ambitious 
scribblings  and  chalk-marks  with  which  some  aspiring  wor- 
shippers may  have  defaced  its  portico. 


MEMORIALS   OF  MRS.   GRUNDY. 

Op  all  the  studies  to  which  I  was  ever  impelled  in  my 
youth,  either  by  fear  of  the  birch  or  by  the  hope  of  the 
laurel  or  the  bays,  mythology  was  perhaps  the  most  charm- 
ing. It  was  refreshing,  after  trying  in  vain  to  conjugate  a 
verb,  and  being  at  last  obliged  to  decline  it  —  after  adding 
up  a  column  of  figures  several  times,  and  getting  many  dif- 
ferent results,  and  none  of  them  the  right  one  —  and  after 
making  a  vain  attempt  to  comprehend  the  only  algebraic 
knowledge  that  ever  was  forced  into  my  unmathematical 
brain,  viz.,  that  x  equals  an  unknown  quantity,  —  it  was, 
I  say,  refreshing  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  my  Classical 
Dictionary,  and  revel  among  the  gods  and  heroes  whose 
wondrous  careers  were  embalmed  in  its  well-thumbed 
pages.  Lempriere  was  the  great  magician  who  summoned 
up  before  my  delighted  eyes  the  denizens  of  a^phere  where 
existence  was  unvexed  by  any  pestilent  arithmetics,  and 
where  the  slavery  of  the  inky  desk  was  unknown.  It  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  as  if  the  knowledge  that  I  gained  out 
of  those  enchanted  chronicles  not  only  improved  my  mind, 
but  made  my  body  more  robust ;  for  I  joined  in  the  chase, 
fought  desperate  battles,  as  the  gods  willed  it,  and  breathed 
all  the  while  the  pure,  invigorating  air  of  old  Olympus. 
The  consecrated  gi-oves  were  the  dwelling-place  of  my 
mind,  and  I  became  for  a  time  a  sharer  in  the  joys  of  beings 
in  whom  I  believed  with  all  the  ardour  and  simplicity  of 
childhood.  I  enjoyed  my  mythological  readings  all  the 
more  because  they  did  not  generally  find  favour  with  my 
scliool  companions,  most  of  whom  vindicated  their  nation- 

(295) 


296  AGUECHEEK. 

ality  by  professing  their  affection  for  the  Rule  of  Three. 
One  of  them,  I  remember,  was  especially  severe  on  the 
uselessness  of  the  studies  in  which  I  took  pleasure.  He, 
parous  deorum  cultor,  et  infrequens,  could  get  no  satisfac- 
tion out  of  the  books  in  which  I  revelled ;  if  he  had  got  to 
study  or  read,  he  could  not  afford  to  waste  his  brains  over 
the  foolish  superstitions  of  three  thousand  years  ago.  He 
did  not  care  how  much  romance  and  poetic  beauty  there 
might  be  in  the  ancient  mythology :  what  did  it  all  come  to 
in  the  end  ?  It  didn't  pay.  It  was  a  humbug.  Our  paths 
in  life  separated  when  we  graduated  from  jackets  and  peg- 
tops.  He  I'emained  faithful  to  his  boyish  instincts,  and  pur- 
sued the  practical  as  if  it  were  a  reality.  After  a  few  years 
his.face  lost  all  its  youthful  look ;  an  intense  spirit  of  ac- 
quisitiveness gleamed  in  his  calculating  eye,  and  an  interest 
table  seemed  to  be  written  in  the  lines  of  his  care-worn 
countenance.  We  seldom  had  any  conversation  in  our  after 
years,  for  he  always  seemed  to  be  under  some  restraint,  as  if 
he  feared  that  I  wished  to  boiTow  a  little  money  of  him, 
and  he  did  not  wish  to  refuse  for  the  sake  of  the  old  time 
when  we  sat  at  the  same  desk,  although  he  knew  that  my 
note  was  good  for  nothing.  His  devotion  to  his  deity,  the 
practical,  did  not  go  unrewarded.  He  became  like  the  only 
mythological  personage  whom  he  would  have  envied,  had 
he  known  any  thing  of  the  science  he  despised.  His  touch 
seemed  to  transmute  every  thing  into  gold.  His  specula- 
tions during  the  war  of  1812  were  all  successful.  Eastern 
lands  harmed  him  not.  The  financial  panic  of  1837  only 
put  money  in  his  purse.  He  rolled  up  a  large  fortune,  and 
was  happy.  He  looked  anxious,  but  of  course  he  was 
happy.  What  man  ever  devoted  his  life  to  the  working 
out  of  the  dreams'  of  his  youth  in  the  acquisition  of  riches, 
and  succeeded  beyond  his  anticipations,  without  being  very 
happy?     But,  if  his  gains  were  something  practical  and 


MEMORIALS   OP  MRS.   GRUNDY.  297 

real,  his  losses  were  doubly  so.  Each  one  of  them  was  as 
a  dagger  stuck  into  that  sere  heart.  His  only  son  gave  him 
much  trouble  by  his  wild  life,  and,  what  touched  him  still 
more,  wasted  the  money  he  had  laboured  to  pile  up,  at 
the  gaming  tables  of  Baden.  I  saw  him  walking  down 
Tremont  Street  the  other  day,  looking  care-worn  and  miser- 
able, and  I  longed  to  ask  him  what  he  thought  of  the  real 
and  practical  after  trying  them.  He  would  certainly  have 
been  willing  to  acknowledge  that  there  is  more  reality  in 
the  romance  and  poetry  of  mythology  than  in  the  thousands 
which  he  invested  in  the  Bay  State  Mills.  His  practical 
life  has  brought  him  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit,  while  the 
old  Lempriere,  which  he  used  to  treat  so  contemptuously, 
flourishes  in  immortal  youth,  unhurt  amid  the  wreck  of 
fortunes  and  the  depreciation  of  stocks. 

But  I  am  not  writing  an  essay  on  mythology.  I  wish  to 
treat  of  one  who  is  sometimes,  considered  a  myth,  but  who 
is  a  living  and  breathing  personality  like  all  of  us.  This 
wide-spread  scepticism  is  one  of  the  most  fatal  signs  of  the 
times.  Because  the  late  Mrs.  Sairey  Gamp  supposed  her- 
self justified  in  cultivating  a  little' domestic  mythology  in  the 
shade  of  the  famous  Mrs.  Harris,  are  we  to  take  all  the 
personages  who  have  illustrated  history  as  myths  and 
unrealities  ?  Shade  of  Herodotus,  forbid  it !  There  are 
some  unbelieving  and  irreverent  enough  to  doubt  whether 
there  is  really  such  a  person  as  Mrs.  Partington ;  other 
some  there  are  so  hardened  in  their  incredulity  as  to  ques- 
tion the  existence  of  the  individual  who  smote  Mr.  William 
Patterson,  and  even  of  the  immortal  recipient  of  the  blow 
himself.  Therefore  we  ought  not  to  think  it  strange  that 
the  lady  whose  name  adorns  the  title  of  this  article  should 
not  have  escaped  the  profane  spirit  of  the  age. 

Unfortunately  for  us,  Mrs.  Grundy  is  no  myth,  but  a 
terrible  reality.     She  is  a  widow.     The  late  Mr.  Grundy 


298  AGUECHEEK. 

bore  it  with  heroic  patience  as  long  as  he  could,  and  then, 
by  a  divine  dispensation  in  which  he  gladly  acquiesced,  was 
relieved  of  the  burden  of  life.  If  he  be  not  happy  now,  the 
great  doctrine  of  compensation  is  nought  but  a  delusion  and 
a  sham.  If  endless  happiness  could  only  be  attained 
through  such  a  purgatory  as  poor  Grundy's  life,  few  of  us, 
I  feai",  would  yearn  to  be  counted  among  the  elect.  Mar- 
tyrs, and  confessors,  and  saints  of  every  degree  have  won 
their  crowns  of  beatitude  with  comparative  ease ;  if  they 
had  been  subjected  to  a  twenty  years'  novitiate  with  Mrs. 
Grundy  and  her  tireless  tongue,  they  would  have  found  how 
much  more  terrible  that  was  than  the  laborious  life  or  cruel 
death  by  which  they  passed  from  earth,  and  fewer  bulls  of 
canonization  would  have  received  the  Seal  of  the  Fisher- 
man. I  have  heard  from  those  who  were  acquainted  with 
that  estimable  and  uncomplaining  man  that  he  married  for 
love.  His  wife  was  a  person  of  considerable  attractions,  of 
an  inquiring  turn  of  mind,  and  of  uncommon  energy  of 
character.  In  her  care  of  his  household  there  was  nothing 
of  which  he  might  with  reason  complain.  She  kept  a  sharp 
look-out  over  all  those  matters  in  which  the  prudent  house- 
wife delights  to  show  her  skill ;  her  table  was  worthy  to 
receive  regal  legs  beneath  its  shining  mahogany  and  spot- 
less cloth,  and  I  have  even  heard  that  her  husband  never 
had  occasion  to  curse  mentally  over  the  lack  of  a  shirt- 
button.  Yet  was  Giles  Grundy,  Esquire,  one  of  the  most 
miserable  of  men.  Of  what  avail  was  it  to  him  that  his 
wife  could  preserve  quinces,  if  she  could  not  preserve  her 
own  peace  of  mind?  What  did  it  matter  how  well  she 
cured  hams,  if  she  always  failed  so  miserably  in  curing  her 
tongue?  What  profit  was  it  that  her  accounts  with  her 
butcher  and  grocer  were  always  correctly  kept,  if  her  ac- 
counts of  all  her  neighbours  constantly  overran  and  kept 
her  and  her  spouse  in  a  perpetual  state  of  moral  bankruptcy  ? 


MEMORIALS  OP  BIRS.    GRUNDY.  299 

What  difference  did  it  make  how  well  she  took  care  of  her 
own  family,  if  they  were  to  be  kept  in  an  unending  turmoil 
by  her  solicitude  concerning  that  of  every  body  else  ? 

If  you  had  visited  Mrs.  Grundy,  and  remarked  the  bright- 
ness of  the  door-knocker,  the  stair-rods,  the  andirons,  and 
every  other  part  of  her  premises  that  was  susceptible  of 
polish,  and  the  scrupulous  cleanliness  that  held  absolute 
sway  around  her,  you  would  have  sworn  that  she  was  gifted 
with  the  hundred  arms  of  Briareus  :  if  you  had  listened  for 
fifteen  minutes  to  her  observations  of  men  and  things,  you 
would  have  had  a  conviction  amounting  to  absolute  certain- 
ty that  she  possessed  the  eyes  of  Argus.  Nobody  ever 
doubted  that  she  was  a  most  religious  person.  She  attended 
to  all  her  religious  duties  with  most  edifying  exactness. 
She  was  always  in  her  seat  at  church,  and  could  tell  you,  to 
a  bonnet  ribbon,  the  dress  of  every  person  who  honoured 
the  sacred  edifice  with  his  or  her  presence.  If  you  would 
know  who  of  the  congregation  were  so  lacking  in  fervour  of 
spirit  as  to  neglect  to  bow  in  the  creed,  or  to  commit  the 
impropriety  of  nodding  during  the  sermon,  Mrs.  Grundy 
could  give  you  all  the  information  you  could  wish.  She 
carried  out  the  divine  precept  to  the  letter  :  she  watched  as 
well  as  prayed.  But  her  religion  did  not  waste  itself  in 
mere  devotional  ecstasy  ;  it  took  the  most  attractive  form 
of  religion  —  that  of  active  benevolence.  And  her  pious 
philanthropy  was  not  of  that  exclusively  telescopic  character 
that  looks  out  for  the  interests  of  the  Cannibal  Islands  and 
the  king  thereof,  and  cannot  understand  that  there  is  any 
spiritual  destitution  nearer  home.  She  subscribed,  it  is 
true,  to  support  the  missionaries  with  their  wives  and  nu- 
merous children,  wiio  were  devoted  to  the  godly  work  of 
converting  the  Chinese  and  the  Juggernauts ;  but  she  did 
something  ;.lso  in  the  way  of  it>od  and  flannel  for  the 
victims  of  want  in  her  own  neighbourhood.     She  estab- 


300  AOUECHEEK. 

lished  a  sewing  circle  in  the  parish  where  she  lived,  and 
never  appeared  happier  than  when  busily  engaged  with  her 
female  companions  in  their  weekly  task  and  talk.  I  am 
afraid  that  there  was  other  sowing  done  in  that  circle  besides 
plain  sewing.  The  seeds  of  domestic  unhappiness  and 
strife  were  carried  from  thence  into  all  parts  of  the  parish. 
Reputations  as  well  as  garments  took  their  turn  among 
those  benevolent  ladies,  and  were  cut  out,  and  fitted,  and 
basted,  and  sewed  up,  and  overcast.  The  sewing  circle  was 
Mrs.  Grundy's  confessional.  Do  not  misap{)rehend  me  — 
I  would  not  asperse  her  cliaracter  by  accusing  her  of  what 
are  known  at  the  present  day  as  "  Romanizing  tendencies;" 
for  she  lived  long  before  the  "  scarlet  fever "  invaded  the 
University  of  Oxford  and  carried  off  its  victims  by  hun- 
dreds ;  and  nobody  ever  suspected  her  of  any  desire  to  tell 
her  own  offences  in  the'  ear  of  any  human  being.  No, 
she  detested  the  Roman  confessional  in  a  becoming  manner ; 
but  she  upheld,  by  word  and  example,  that  most  scriptural 
institution,  the  sewing  circle  —  the  Protestant  confessional, 
where  each  one  confesses,  not  her  own  sins,  but  the  sins  of 
her  neighbours.  Mrs.  Grundy's  success  with  her  favourite 
institution  encouraged  others  to  emulate  her  example ;  and 
now  sewing  circles  are  common  wherever  the  mother  tongue 
of  that  benevolent  lady  is  spoken.  It  must  in  justice  be 
acknowledged  that  there  are  few  institutions  of  human  in- 
-vention  which  have  departed  from  the  spirit  of  their  origi- 
nal founder  so  little  as  the  sewing  circle. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  her  virtues  as  a  housekeeper,  a  phi- 
lanthropist, and  a  Christian,  Mrs.  Grundy  had  her  enemies. 
Some  people  were  uncharitable  enough  to  say  that  she  was 
the  cause  of  more  trouble  than  all  the  rest  of  the  female 
population  of  tke  town.  They  accused  her  of  setting  her- 
self up  as  a  censor,  and  giving  judgments  founded  upon  hear- 
say testimony  rather  than  sound  legal  evidence.     They  even 


MEMORIALS  OF  MRS.   GRUNDY.  301 

said  that  she  made  her  visits  among  the  poor  a  cloak  for 
the  gratification  of  her  inquisitiveness  ;  and,  if  it  is  ever 
pardonable  to  judge  of  the  motives  of  a  fellow-being,  I 
think  that,  in  consideration  of  their  exasperation,  they  must 
be  excused  for  making  so  unkind  a  charge,  it  seemed  to  be 
so  well  founded.  Far  be  it  fi'om  me  to  say  that  Mrs. 
Grundy  ever  wilfully  misrepresented.  She  would  have 
shrunk  instinctively  from  a  falsehood.  But  she  delighted  to 
draw  inferences ;  and  no  fact  or  rumour  ever  came  to  her 
without  being  classified  properly  in  her  mental  history  of 
her  neighbours,  and  being  made  to  shed  its  full  influence 
upon  her  next  conversation.  It  is  astonishing  how  much 
one  pair  of  eyes  and  ears  will  do  in  the  collection  of  infor- 
mation when  a  person  is  devoted  to  it  in  earnest.  In  her 
younger  days,  Mrs.  Grundy  had  taken  pleasure  in  watching 
her  neighbours  and  keeping  up  a  running  commentary  on 
their  movements ;  as  she  advanced  in  life,  it  became  her 
business.  Her  efforts  in  that  way  were  rather  in  the  style 
of  an  amateur  up  to  the  time  of  her  marriage ;  afterwards 
she  adopted  a  professional  air.  She  placed  herself  at  her 
favourite  window,  ornamenting  its  seat  with  her  spools,  and 
though  she  stitched  away  with  commendable  industry,  noth- 
ing escaped  her  that  came  within  range  of  her  keen  powers 
of  observation. 

If  Mr.  Brown  called  on  Mrs.  White  over  the  way,  Mrs. 
Grundy  set  it  down  as  a  remarkable  occurrence :  if  he  re- 
peated his  visit  a  week  later,  she  would  not  declare  it  posi- 
tively scandalous,  but  it  was  evident  that  her  nicer  sense  of 
propriety  was  deeply  wounded :  if  he  passed  by  the  door 
without  calling,  it  was  clear  that  there  had  been  a  falling 
out  —  that  Mrs.  White  had  seen  the  error  of  her  ways,  or 
that  her  husband  had,  and  had  given  Brown  a  warning.  If 
a  stranger  was  seen  exercising  Jones's  bell-pull  on  two  con- 
secutive days,  this  indefatigable  woman  allowed  not  her  eyea 
26 


302  AGDECHEEK. 

to  sleep  nor  her  eyelids  to  slumber  until  she  had  satisfied 
herself  concerning  his  name  and  purpose.  If  Mr.  Thomp- 
son waited  upon  pretty  Miss  Jenkins  home  in  a  shower,  and 
treated  her  kindly  and  politely,  (and  who  could  do  other- 
wise with  a  young  angel  in  blue  and  drab,  wlio  might  charm 
a  Kaffir  or  a  Sepoy  into  urbanity  ?)  Mrs.  Grundy  straight- 
way instituted  inquiries  among  all  the  neighbours  as  to 
whether  it  was  true  that  they  were  engaged.  After  this 
fashion  did  Mrs.  Grundy  live.  Her  words  have  been 
known  to  blast  a  reputation  which  under  the  sunshine  of 
prosperity  and  the  storms  of  misfortune  had  sustained  itself 
with  equal  grace  and  honour.  It  was  useless  to  bring  up 
proofs  of  a  life  of  integrity  against  her  sentence  or  her 
knowing  smile.  There  was  no  appeal  from  her  decision. 
Not  that  she  was  uncharitable,  —  only  it  did  seem  as  if  she 
were  rather  more  willing  to  believe  evil  of  her  neighbours 
than  good ;  and  she  appeared  slow  to  trust  in  the  repent- 
ance of  any  one  who  had  ever  fallen  into  sin,  especially  if 
the  person  were  of  her  own  sex.  I  am  not  complaining  of 
this  peculiarity;  we  must  be  circumspect  and  strict,  and 
mercy  is  .a  quality  too  rare  and  divine  to  be  wasted  on  every 
trivial  occasion.  But  I  cannot  help  thinking  that,  if  the 
penitent  found  it  as  hard  to  gain  the  absolving  smile  of  that 
Power  to  which  alone  we  are  answerable  for  our  misdeeds 
as  to  reinstate  themselves  in  the  good  graces  of  Mrs. 
Grundy,  how  few  of  us  could  have  any  hope  of  the  beatific 
vision ! 

Mrs.  Grundy  had  great  influence ;  she  was  respected  and 
feared.  People  found  that  she  would  give  her  opinion  ex 
cathedra,  and  that,  however  unfounded  that  opinion  might 
be,  there  were  those  who  would  reecho  it  until  common 
repetition  gave  it  the  force  of  truth  ;  so  they  tried  to  con- 
ciliate her  by  graduating  their  actions  according  to  what 
they  supposed  would  be  her  judgment     When  this  was 


MEMORIALS   OF   TuKS.    GRUNDY.  SOS 

seen,  she  began  to  be  envied  by  some  who  had  once  hated 
her,  and  her  idiosyncrasies  were  made  the  study  of  many 
of  her  sex  who  longed  to  share  her  empire  over  the  thoughts 
and  actions  of  tlieir  fellow-creatures.  Thus,  by .  a  sort  of 
multiplex  metempsychosis,  were  Mrs.  Grundy's  vix'tues  per- 
petuated, and  she  was  endowed  with  a  species  of  omnipres- 
ence. In  this  country  Mrs.  Grundy  is  a  power.  She  is 
the  absolute  sovereign  of  America.  Her  reign  there  is  none 
to  dispute.  Our  national  motto  ought  to  be,  instead  of 
E pluribus  unum,  "  What  will  Mrs.  Grundy  say  ?  "  There  is 
no  class  in  our  community  over  which  she  does  not  exercise 
more  or  less  power.  Our  politicians,  when  they  cease  to 
regard  their  influence  as  a  commodity  to  be  sold  to  the 
highest  bidder,  act,  not  from  any  fixed  principles,  but  with 
a  single  eye  to  the-good  will  of  Mrs.  Grundy.  If  a  man  is 
buying  a  house,  it  is  ten  chances  to  one  that  Mrs.  Grundy's 
opinion  concerning  gentility  of  situation  will  carry  tlie  day 
against  cosiness  and  real  comfort.  "  K  your  wife  or  daughter 
goes  to  buy  a  dress,  Mrs.  Grundy's  taste  will  be  consulted 
in  preference  to  the  durability  of  the  fabric  or  the  condition 
of  your  purse.  Mrs.  Grundy  dictates  to  us  how  we  shall 
furnish  our  houses,  and  prescribes  to  us  our  whole  rule  of 
life.  Under  her  stern  sway,  multitudes  are  living  beyond 
their  means,  and  trying  to  avert  the  bankruptcy  and  unhap- 
piness  that  inevitably  await  them.  It  is  not  merely  in  the 
management  of  temporal  affairs  that  Mrs.  Grundy  makes 
her  power  felt.  Iler  vigilance  checks  many  a  generous 
impulse,  stands  between  the  resolution  to  do  justice  and  its 
execution,  and  is  a  fruitful  source  of  hypocrisy.  She  pre- 
sides over  the  pulpit ;  the  power  of  wardens  and  vestrymen 
is  swallowed  up  by  her ;  and  the  ministt;r  wiio  can  dtt'ss  up 
his  weekly  dish  of  moral  commonplaces  so  as  not  to  offend 
her  discriminating  taste  deserves  to  retain  his  place,  and 
merits  the  unanimous  admiration  of  the  whole  sewing  circle. 


804  AGUECHEEK. 

She  is  to  be  found  in  courts  of  law,  animating  the  opposing 
parties,  and  enjoying  the  contest ;  actions  of  slander  are  an 
agreeable  recreation  to  her ;  petitions  for  divorce  give  her 
unmixed  joy.  LiJ^e  the  fury,  Alecto,  so  fim;ly  described  by 
Virgil,  Mrs.  Grundy  can  arm  brothers  to  deadly  strife 
against  each  other,  and  stir  up  the  happiest  homes  with 
infernal  hatred ;  to  her  belong  a  thousand  woful  arts  —  Sihi 
nomina  mille,  mille  nocendi  artes.  Mrs.  Grundy's  philan- 
thropy confines  itself  to  no  particular  class  ;  it  is  universal. 
Nothing  that  relates  to  human  kind  is  alien  to  her.  There 
is  nothing  earthly  so  high  that  she  does  not  aspire  to  control 
it,  nor  any  thing  too  contemptible  for  her  not  to  wish  to 
know  all  about  it. 

Mrs.  Grundy  is  omnipresent.  Go  where  you  will,  you 
cannot  escape  from  her  presence.  She  stands  guard  un- 
ceasingly over  your  front  door  and  back  windows.  Her 
watchful  eye  follows  you  whene'er  you  take  your  walks 
abroad.  Your  name  is  never  mentioned  that  she  is  not  by, 
and  seriously  inclined  to  hear  aught  that  may. increase  her 
baleful  stock  of  knowledge.  It  is  all  the  same  to  her 
whether  you  have  lived  uprightly  or  viciously ;  beneath  her 
Gorgon  glance  all  human  actions  are  petrified  alike.  And 
if  she  does  not  succeed  in  sowing  discord  around  your 
hearthstone,  and  in  driving  you  to  despair  and  self-murder, 
as  she  did  poor  Henry  Herbert  the  other  day,  it  will  be 
because  you  are  not  cursed  with  his  fiery  sensitiveness,  and 
not  because  she  lacks  the  will  to  do  it. 

There  is  but  one  way  in  which  the  Grundian  yoke  can 
be  thrown  off.  We  must  treat  her  as  the  Englis^h  wit 
treated  an  insignificant  person  who  had  insulted  him ;  we 
must  ■*'  let  her  alone  severely."  We  pay  a  certain  kind  of 
allegiance  to  her  if  we  take  notice  of  her  for  the  purpose 
of  running  counter  to  her  notions.  We  must  ignore  her 
altogether.     It  is  true,  this  requires  a  great  deal  of  moral 


MEMORIALS   OF  MRS.    GRUNDY.  805 

courage,  particularly  in  a  country  where  every  body  knows 
every  body  else's  business ;  but  it  is  an  easier  task  to 
accjuire  that  courage  than  to  submit  patiently  to  Mrs. 
Grundy's  dictation  and  interference.  Who  shall  estimate 
the  happiness  of  that  millennial  period  when  we  shall  cease 
to  ask  ourselves  before  our  every  action,  "  What  will  Mrs. 
Grundy  say  ?  "  and  shall  begin  in  earnest  to  live  up  to  the 
golden  rule  that  counsels  us  to  mind  our  own  business  ? 
When  that  day  comes,  what  a  world  this  Avill  be !  How 
will  superficial  morality  and  skin-deep  propriety,  efivy  and 
uncharitableness,  be  diminished !  How  will  contentment, 
and  mutual  good  will,  and  domestic  peace  be  augmented ! 
Think  on  these  things,  O  beloved  reader ;  mind  your  own 
business,  and  the  day  is  not  far  distant  when,  for  you  at 
least,  the  iron  sceptre  of  Dame  Grundy  shall  be  powerless, 
and  the  spell  broken  that  held  you  in  so  humiliating  a 
thraldom. 

26* 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    LIFE. 

Life  is  what  we  make  it.  Tlie  same  scenes  wear  a  very 
different  appearance  to  an  ingenuous  youth  "  in  the  bright 
morning  of  his  virtues,  in  the  full  spring  blossom  of  his 
hopes,"  and  to  the  disappointed  wretch  who  gazes  on  them 
"  with  the  eyes  of  sour  misanthropy."  The  horse  that  was 
turned  by  his  benevolent  owner  into  a  carpenter's  shop, 
with  a  pair  of  green  spectacles  prefixed  to  his  nose,  and 
mistook  the  dry  pine  shavings  for  his  legitimate  fodder,  was 
very  much  in  the  condition  of  a  youth  looking  upon  life 
and  yielding  to  the  natural  enthusiasm  of  his  unwarpcd 
spirit.  Like  the  noble  brute,  however,  the  young  man  is 
undeceived  as  soon  as  he  tries  to  sustain  himself  with  the 
vanities  which  look  so  tempting  and  nutritious.  He  may, 
like  a  Wolsey.  a  Charles  V.,  or  a  Napoleon,  attain  to  the 
heights  of  power  before  the  delusive  glasses  drop  off;  but 
even  though  the  moment  be  delayed  until  he  lies  gasping 
in  the  clutch  of  that  monarch  to  whom  the  most  absolute 
of  sovereigns  and  the  most  radical  of  republicans  alike 
must  yield  allegiance,  it  is  sure  to  come,  and  show  him  the 
ashes  that  lay  hid  beneath  the  fair,  ripe-looking  rind  of  the 
fruit  he  climbed  so  high  to  obtain.  Life  passes  before  us 
like  a  vast  panorama,  day  by  day  and  year  by  year  un- 
rolling and  disclosing  new  scenes  to  charm  us  into  self- 
forge  tfulness.  At  one  time,  we  breathe  the  bracing  air  of 
the  mountains  ;  at  another,  our  eyes  are  gladdened  by  the 
sight  of  sunshiny  meadows,  or  of  fertile  and  far-reaching 
prairies ;  and  then  the  towered  city,  with  its  grove  of  masts 
and  its  busy  wharves,  makes  all  mere  natural  beauty  seem 

(306) 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OP  LIFE.  807 

insignificant  in  comparison  with  the  enterprise  and  ambition 
of  man ;  until,  at  last,  the  canvas  is  rolled  away,  the  music 
ceases,  the  lights  are  put  out,  and  we  are  left  to  realize  that 
all  in  which  we  delighted  was  but  an  illusion  and  a  "  fleet- 
ing show." 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  vanities  that  surround  us,  — 
in  spite  of  the  sublime  world-sickness  of  Solomon  and  the 
Preacher,  and  the  fierce  satire  of  Juvenal,  (who  was  as 
anxious  to  ascertain  the  precise  weight  of  Hannibal  as  if 
that  illustrious  dux  had  been  a  prize-fighter,)  —  there  ia 
considerable  reality  in  life.  The  existence  of  so  much 
sham  and  make-believe  implies  the  existence  of  the  real 
and  true.  Sir  Thomas  Browne  tells  us  that  "  in  seventy 
or  eighty  years  a  man  may  have  a  deep  gust  of  the 
world ; "  and  it  were  indeed  melancholy  if  any  one  with 
hair  as  gray  as  mine  should  look  despairingly  over  the  field 
of  human  existence  and  effort,  and  cry,  "  All  is  barren." 

Life,  as  I  have  before  said,  is  whatever  we  choose  to 
make  it.  Its  true  philosophy  is  that  divine  art  which  en- 
ables us  to  transmute  its  every  moment  into  the  pure  gold 
of  heroic  and  changeless  immortality.  "Without  that  phi- 
losophy, it  is  impossible  for  the  world  not  to  seem  at  times 
as  it  did  to  the  desponding  Danish  prince,  "  a  sterile  prom- 
ontory," and  a  "  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapours." 
Without  it,  life  is  like  an  elaborate  piece  of  embroidery, 
looked  at  from  the  wrong  side ;  we  cannot  but  acknowledge 
the  brilliancy  of  some  of  its  threads,  and  the  delicate  tex- 
ture of  the  work,  but  its  lack  of  system,  and  of  any  appear- 
ance of  utility,  fatigues  the  mind  that  hungers  after  perfec- 
tion, and  tempts  it  to  doubt  the  divine  wisdom  and  goodness 
from  which  it  originated.  With  it,  however,  we  gaze  with 
admiration  and  awe  upon  the  front  of  the  same  marvellous 
work.  Our  sense  is  no  longer  puzzled  by  any  straggling 
tlireads,  or  loose  ends ;  the  exquisite  colours,  the  contrast 


^8  AGUECHEEK. 

of  light  and  sliadc,  and  the  perfect  symmetry  and  harmony 
of  the  design,  (ill  the  heart  of  the  beholder  with  wonder 
and  delight,  and  draw  him  nearer  to  the  source  of  those 
ineffable  perfections  which  are  but  imperfectly  symbolized 
in  tlie  marvels  of  the  visible  universe. 

The  philosophy  which  can  do  all  this  is  sincerity.  "  I 
think  sincerity  is  better  than  grace,"  says  Mr.  T.  Carlyle ; 
and  the  Scotch  savage  is  right.  All  the  amenities  of  life 
that  spring  from"  any  other  source  than  a  true  heart,  are 
but  gratuitous  hypocrisy.  The  kind-hearlfcd  knight  whom 
I  have  already  quoted  showed  how  highly  he  esteemed  this 
virtue  when  he  said,  "  Swim  smoothly  in  the  stream  of 
nature,  and  live  hut  one  man."  This  double  existence,  that 
most  of  us  support,  —  that  is,  what  we  really  are,  and  what 
we  wish  to  be  considered,  —  is  the  source  of  many  of  our 
faults,  and  most  of  our  vexation  and  wretchedness.  He  is 
the  truly  happy  man  who  forgets  that  "  appearances  must 
be  kept  up,"  and  remembers  only  that  "  each  of  us  is  as 
great  as  he  appears  in  the  sight  of  his  Creator,  and  no 
greater."  A  great  French  philosopher  has  truly  said, 
"How  many  controversies  would  be  terminated,  if  the 
disputants  were  obliged  to  speak  out  exactly  what  they 
thought !  "  And  surely  he  might  have  gone  farther  in  the 
same  line  of  thought ;  for  how  much  heartburning,  domestic 
unhappiness,  dishonesty,  and  shameful  poverty  might  be 
prevented,  if  my  neighbour  Jinkins  and  his  wife  were  con- 
tent to  pass  in  the  world  for  what  they  ai'e,  instead  of 
assuming  a  princely  style  of  living  that  only  makes  their 
want  of  true  refinement  more  apparent,  and  if  Johnson 
and  his  wife  could  be  induced  not  to  imitate  the  vulgar  fol- 
lies of  the  Jinkinses !  Believe  me,  incredulous  reader, 
there  is  more  wisdom  in  old  Sir  Thomas's  exhortation  to 
"live  but  one  man"  than  appears  at  first  sight. 

But  to  leave  this  great  primary  virtue,  which  policy 


•TUE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   LIFE.  80^ 

teaches  most  men  to  practise,  though  they  love  it  not,  — 
there  are  two  or  three  principles  of  action  \Yhich  I  have 
found  very  useful  in  my  career,  and  which  form  a  part  of 
my  philosophy  of  life.  The  first  is,  never  to  anticipate 
troubles.  Many  years  ago,  I  was  travelling  in  a  part  of 
our  common  country  not  very  thickly  settled,  and,  coming 
to  a  place  where  two  roads  met,  I  applied,  in  my  doubt  as 
to  which  one  I  ought  to  take,  to  an  old  fellow  (with  a  pair 
of  shoulders  like  those  of  Hercules,  and  a  face  on  which 
half  a  century  of  sunshine,  and  storm,  and  toddies  had  made 
an  indelible  record)  who  was  repairing  a  rickety  fence  by 
the  wayside.  He  scanned  me  with  a  look  that  seemed  to 
take  in  not  only  my  personal  appearance,  but  the  genealogy 
of  my  brave  ancestor,  who  might  have  fallen  in  a  duel  if  he 
had  not  learned  how  "  to  distinguish  between  the  man  and 
the  act,"  and  then  directed  me  to  turn  to  the  left,  as  that 
road  saved  some  three  or  four  miles  of  the  distance  to  the 
farm-house  to  which  I  was  journeying.  As  it  was  spring- 
time, I  manifested  some  anxiety  to  know  whether  the  fresh- 
ets, whic^  had  been  having  quite  a  run  of  business  in  some 
parts  of  the  country,  had  done  any  damage  to  a  bridge 
which  I  knew  I  must  cross  if  I  took  the  shorter  road. 
He  sneered  at  my  forethought,  and  said  he  supposed  that  the 
bridge  was  all  right,  and  that  I  had  better  "  go  ahead,  and 
see."  I  was  acting  upon  his  advice,  when  a  shout  from  his 
hoarse,  nasal  voice  caused  me  to  look  back.  "  I  say,  young 
man,"  he  bawled  out  to  me,  "  never  cross  a  bridge  till  you 
come  to  it !  "  There  was  wisdom  in  the  old  man's  rough- 
spoken  sentence  —  "solid  chunks  of  wisdom,"  as  Captain 
Ed'ard  Cuttle  would  fain  express  it  —  and  it  sank  deep  into 
ray  memory.  There  are  very  few  of  us  who  have  not  a 
strong  propensity  to  diminish  our  present  strength  by  enter- 
taining fears  of  future  weakness.  If  we  could  content  our- 
selves to  "  act  in  the  living  present,"  —  if  we  could  keep 


810  AGUECIIEEK. 

these  telescopic  evils  out  of  sight,  and  use  all  our  energies 
in  grappling  with  the  clifTiculties  that  actually  beset  our 
path,  —  how  much  more  we  should  achieve,  and  how  greatly 
would  our  sum  of  happiness  be  increased ! 

Another  most  salutary  principle  in  my  philosophy  is, 
never  to  allow  myself  to  be  frightened  until  I  have  exam- 
ined and  fairly  established  the  necessity  of  such  a  humilia- 
tion. I  adopted  this  principle  in  my  childhood,  being  led  to 
it  in  the  following  manner :  I  was  visiting  my  grandfather, 
who  lived  in  a  fine  old  mansion-house  in  the  country,  with 
high  wainscotings,  capacious  fireplaces,  heavy  beams  in  the 
ceilings,  and  wide-arching  elms  overshadowing  the  snug 
porch  where  two  or  three  generations  had  made  love.  Sixty 
years  and  more  have  elapsed  since  that  happy  time,  yet  it 
seems  fresher  in  my  memory  than  the  events  of  only 
quarter  of  a  century  back.  My  grandfather  was  a  lover  of 
books,  and  possessed  a  good  deal  of  general  information. 
He  thought  it  as  advisable  to  keep  up  with  the  history  of 
his  own  times  as  to  be  skilled  in  that  of  empires  long  since 
passed  away.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  should 
have  treasured  every  newspaper — especially  every  foreign 
journal  —  that  he  could  lay  his  hands  upon.  It  was  under 
his  auspices  that  I  first  read  the  dreadful  story  of  the  Reign 
of  Terror,  and  acquired  my  anti-revolutionary  principles. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  bright  autumnal  afternoon  when 
the  mail  coach  from  Boston  brought  a  package  of  books  and 
papers  to  my  grandfather.  It  was  the  last  friendly  favour, 
in  fact  the  last  communication,  that  he  ever  received  from 
his  old  Tory  friend,  Mr.  Barmesyde,  whom  I  mentioned 
with  respect  in  a  former  essay ;  for  that  genial  old  gentle- 
man died  in  London  not  long  after.  The  parcel  had  made 
a  quick  transit  for  those  days,  Mr.  Barniesyde's  letter  being 
dated  only  forty-six  days  before  it  was  opened  by  my  grand- 
sire,  and  we  enjoyed  the  strong  fragx-ance  of  its  uncut  con- 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE.  311 

tents  together.  The  old  gentleman  seized  upon  a  copy  of 
Burke's  splendid  Essay  on  the  French  Revolution,  which 
the  package  contained,  and  left  me  to  revel  in  the  newspa- 
pers, which  were  full  of  the  dreadful  details  of  that  bloody 
Saturnalia.  I  got  leave  from  my  grandfather  (who  was  so 
deep  in  Burke  that  he  answered  me  at  random)  to  sit  up  an 
hour  later  than  usual.  Terrible  as  all  the  things  of  which  I 
read  seemed  to  my  young  mind,  there  was  a  fascination 
about  the  details  of  that  sanguinary  orgie  that  completely 
enchanted  me.  My  imagination  was  full  of  horrible  shapes 
when  I  was  obliged  to  leave  the  warm,  cheerful  parlour,  and 
Robespierre,  Danton,  and  Marat  were  the  infernal  cham- 
berlains that  attended  me  as  I  went  up  the  broad,  creaking 
staircase  unwillingly  to  bed.  A  fresh  north-west  breeze 
was  blowing  outside,  and  the  sere  woodbines  and  honey- 
suckles that  filled  the  house  with  fragrance,  and  gave  it  such 
a  rural  look  in  summer,  startled  me  with  their  struggles  to 
escape  from  bondage.  Had  it  been  spring,  my  young  im- 
agination was  so  excited  that  I  should  have  feared  that  they  ' 
might  imitate  the  insurgents  of  whom  I  had  been  reading 
and  begin  to  shoot !  In  the  night  my  troubled  slumbers 
were  disturbed  by  a  noise  that  seemed  to  me  louder  than 
the  discharge  of  a  heavy  cannon.  I  sat  up  in  the  high,  old- 
fashioned  bed,  and  glared  around  the  room,  which  was  some- 
what lighted  by  the  beams  of  the  setting  moon.  There  was  no 
mistake  about  my  personal  identity  — ^"I  was  neither  royalist 
nor  jacobin  ;  there  was  no  doubt  that  I  was  in  the  best  "  spare 
chamber  "  of  my  grandfather's  house,  and  not  in  the  Bastile, 
and  that  the  dark-looking  thing  in  the  comer  was  a  solid 
mahogany  chest  of  drawers,  and  not  a  guillotine ;  but  all 
these  things  only  served  to  increase  my  terror  when  I  no- 
ticed a  dark  form  standing  near  the  foot  of.  the  bed  and 
staring  at  me  with  pale,  fiery  eyes.  I  rubbed  my  own  eyes 
hard,  and  pinched  myself  severely,  to  make  sure  that  I  was 


M5  AGUECHEEK. 

awake.  The  room  was  as  still  as  the  great  chamber  in  the 
pyramid  of  Cheops.  I  could  hear  the  old  clock  tick  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  as  plainly  as  if  I  had  been  shut  up  in  its 
capacious  case.  In  the  midst  of  ray  perturbation  it  made 
every  fibre  of  my  frame  tremble  by  striking  one  with  a  sol- 
emn clangour  that  I  thought  must  have  waked  every  sleeper 
in  the  house.  The  stillness  that  followed  was  deeper  ani 
more  terrifying  than  before.  I  heard  distinctly  the  breath- 
ing of  the  monster  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  I  tried  to  whistle 
at  the  immovable  shape,  but  I  had  lost  the  power  to  pucker. 
At  last,  I  formed  a  desperate  resolution.  I  knew  that,  if  the 
being  whose  big,  fierce  eyes  filled  me  with  terror,  were  a  gen- 
uine supernatural  fiend,  it  was  all  over  with  me,  and  I  might 
as  well  give  up  at  once.  But,  if  perchance  a  human  form 
were  hid  beneath  that  dreadful  disguise,  there  was  some 
room  for  hope  of  ultimate  escape.  To  settle  this  point, 
therefore,  became  necessary  to  my  peace  of  mind,  and  I  de- 
termined that  it  should  be  done.  Bending  up  "  each  cor- 
poral agent  to  the  terrible  feat,"  I  slid  quietly  out  of  bed. 
The  monster  was  as  motionless  as  before,  but  I  noticed  that 
his  head  was  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  which  made  his 
head  seem  ghastlier  than  ever.  Setting  my  teeth  firmly 
together,  and  clinching  my  little  fists  to  persuade  myself  that 
I  was  not  afraid,  I  made  the  last,  decisive  effort.  I  walked 
across  the  room,  and  stood  face  to  face  with  that  formidable 
shape.  My  grandfather's  best  coat  hung  there  against  the 
wall,  its  velvet  collar  protected  from  the  dust  by  a  white 
cloth,  and  the  two  gilt  buttons  on  its  back  glittering  in  the 
moonlight.  This  was  the  tremendous  presence  that  had 
appalled  me.  The  weakness  in  the  knees,  the  chattering 
of  my  teeth,  and  the  profuse  perspiration  which  followed 
my  recognition  of  that  harmless  garment,  bore  witness  to 
the  severity  of  my  fright.  Before  I  crawled  back  into  the 
warm  bed,  I  resolved  never  in  future  to  yield  to  fear,  until 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OP  LIFE.  81^ 

I  had  ascertained  that  there  was  no  escape  from  it ;  suad  | 
have  had  many  occasions  since  to  act  upon  that  principle. 

Speaking  of  fear,  a  friend  of  mine  has  a  favourite  maxim, 
"  Always  do  what  you  are  afraid  to  do  ; "  to  which  (in  a 
limited  sense,  so  far  as  it  relates  to  bodily  fear)  I  subscribed 
even  in  my  boyhood.  I  was  returning  one  evening  to  my 
grandfather's  house,  during  one  of  my  vacation  visits,  and 
yielded  to  the  base  sentiment  of  timidity  so  far  as  to  choose 
the  long  way  thither  by  the  open  road,  rather  than  to  take  the 
short  cut,  through  the  graveyard  and  a  little  piece  of  wood- 
land, which  was  the  ordinary  path  in  the  daytime.  I  pur- 
sued my  way,  thinking  of  what  I  had  done,  until  I  got 
within  sight  of  the  old  mansion  and  its  guardian  elms,  when 
shame  for  my  own  cowardice  compelled  me  to  retrace  my 
steps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  more,  and  take  the  pathway  I 
had  so  foolishly  dreaded.  The  victory  then  achieved  has 
lasted  to  this  hour.  Dead  people  and  their  habitations 
have  not  affrighted  me  since ;  indeed,  some  grave  men 
whom  I  have  met  have  excited  my  mirth  rather  than  my 
fears. 

But  overcome  our  fears  and  our  propensity  to  borrow 
trouble,  as  we  may,  —  in  spite  of  all  our  philosophy,  life  is 
a  severe  task.  I  have  heard  of  a  worthy  Connecticut  par- 
son of  the  old  school,  who  enlarged  upon  the  goodness  of 
that  Providence  which  dealt  out  time  to  man,  divided  into 
minutes,  and  hours,  and  days,  and  months,  and  years,  instead 
of  giving  it  to  him,  as  it  were,  in  a  lump,  or  in  so  large  a 
quantity  that  he  could  not  conveniently  use  it  I  Laugh  as 
much  as  you  please,  gentle  reader,  at  the  seeming  absurdity 
of  the  venerable  divine,  but  do  not  neglect  the  great  truth 
which  inspired  his  thought.  Do  not  forget  what  a  great 
mercy  it  is  that  we  are  obliged  to  live  but  one  day  at  a 
time.  Do  not  overlook  the  loving  kindness  which  softens 
the  memory  of  past  sorrows,  and  conceals  from  us  those 
27 


814  AGUECHEEE. 

which  are  to  come.  I  have  no  respect  for  that  newest 
heresy  of  our  age,  which  pretends  to  read  the  secrets  of 
the  unseen  world,  nor  any  sympathy  with  those  morbid 
minds  that  yearn  to  tear  away  the  veil  which  infinite  wis- 
dom and  mercy  hangs  between  us  and  the  future.  With 
all  our  boasted  learning  we  know  little  enough ;  but  that 
little  is  far  too  much  for  our  happiness.  How  many  of  our 
trials  and  aflSictions  could  we  have  borne,  if  we  had  been 
able  to  foresee  their  full  extent  and  to  anticipate  their  com- 
bined poignancy  ?    Truly  we  might  say  with  Shakespeare,  — 

"  O,  if  this  were  seen, 
The  happiest  youth  —  viewing  his  progress  through, 
What  perils  past,  what  crosses  to  ensue  — 
Would  shut  the  book,  and  sit  him  down  and  die." 

He  only  is  the  true  philosopher  who  uses  life  as  the 
usurer  does  his  gold,  and  employs  each  shining  hour  so  as 
to  insure  an  ever-increasing  rate  of  interest.  He  does  not 
bury  his  gift,  nor  waste  it  in  frivolity.  Like  the  old  Doge 
of  Venice,  he  grows  old  but  does  not  wear  out :  Senescit, 
non  segnescit.  And  he  truly  lives  twice,  as  an  old  classical 
poet  expresses  it,  inasmuch  as  he  renews  his  enjoyment  of 
the  past  in  the  recollection  of  his  good  actions  and  of  pleas- 
ures "  such  as  leave  no  sting  behind." 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 

There  is  no  pleasure  so  satisfactory  as  that  which  aa 
old  man  feels  in  recalling  the  happiness  of  his  youthful 
days.  All  the  woes,  and  anxieties,  and  heart-burnings  that 
disturbed  him  then  have  passed  away,  and  left  only  sun- 
shine in  his  memory.  And  this  retrospective  enjoyment 
increases  with  every  repeated  recital,  until  the  scenes  of  his 
past  history  assume  a  magnificence  of  proportion  that  be- 
wilders the  narrator  himself,  and  sets  the  principles  of  optics 
entirely  at  defiance.  It  is  with  old  men  looking  back  on 
their  younger  days  very  much  as  it  is  with  people  who 
have  travelled  in  Italy.  How  do  the  latter  glow  with  en- 
thusiasm at  the  mere  mention  of  the  "  land  of  the  melting 
lyre  and  conquering  spear "  !  How  do  their  eyes  glisten 
as  they  tell  of  the  time  when  they  mused  among  the  broken 
columns  of  the  Forum,  or  breathed  the  air  of  ancient  con- 
secration under  the  majestic  vaults  of  the  old  basilicas,  or 
walked  along  the  shores  of  the  world's  most  beautiful  bay, 
and  watched  the  black  form  of  Vesuvius  striving  in  vain  to 
tarnish  with  its  foul  breath  the  blue  canopy  above  it !  They 
have  forgotten  their  squabbles  with  the  vetturini,  the 
draughtless  chimneys  in  their  lodgings,  and  the  dirty  stair- 
case that  conducted  to  them ;  the  fleas,  with  all  the  other 
disagreeable  accompaniments  of  Italian  life,  have  fled  into 
oblivion ;  and  Italy  lives  in  their  memories  only  as  a  land 
of  gorgeous  sunsets,  and  of  a  history  that  dwarfs  all  other 
human  annals.  And  so  it  is  with  an  old  man  looking  back 
upon  his  youth :  he  forgets  how  he  cried  over  his  arith- 
metic  lessons ;    how  unfilial  his  feelings  were  when  his 

(316) 


316  AGDECHEEK. 

governor  refused  him  permission  to  set  up  a  theatre  in  the 
cellar ;  how  sheepishly  he  slunk  through  all  the  back  alleys 
on  the  day  when  he  first  mounted  a  tail-coat  and  a  hat ;  how 
unhappy  he  was  when  he  saw  his  heart's  idol,  Mary  Smith, 
walking  home  from  school  with  his  implacable  foe,  Brown ; 
how  his  head  used  to  ache  after  those  nodes  ccenceque  deum 
with  his  club  at  the  old  Exchange  Coffee  House ;  and  what 
a  void  was  created  in  his  heart  when  his  crony  of  cronies 
was  ordered  oflf  by  a  commission  from  the  war  department. 
There  is  no  room  in  his  crowded  memory  for  such  things  as 
these.  Sitting  by  his  fireside,  as  I  do  now,  he  recalls  his 
youth  only  as  a  season  of  bats  and  balls,  and  marbles,  of 
sleds,  and  skates,  and  bright  buttons,  and  clean  ruffled  col- 
lars, of  Christmas  cornucopias  of  hosiery,  and  no  end  of 
Artillery  Elections  and  Fourths  of  July,  with  coppers 
enough  to  secure  the  potentiality  of  obtaining  egg-pop  to 
an  alarming  extent. 

How  he  fires  up  if  you  mention  the  theatre  to  him ! 
He  will  allow  that  Mr.  Gilbert  and  Mr.  "Warren  are  most 
excellent  in  their  way ;  but  bless  your  simple  heart,  what  is 
the  stage  now  compared  to  what  it  was  in  the  first  part  of 
this  century  ?  And  he  is  about  right.  It  is  useless  for  us, 
who  remember  the  old  Federal  Street  playhouse,  and  the 
triumphs  of  Cooke  and  the  great  Kean,  to  try  to  go  to  the 
theatre  now.  Our  new  theatre  is  more  stately  and  splendid 
than  Old  Drury  was,  but  our  players  do  not  reach  my 
youthful  standard.  I  miss  those  old  familiar  faces  and 
voices  that  delighted  me  in  times  long  past,  and  the  stage 
has  lost  most  of  its  charms.  I  can  find  my  best  theatrical 
entertainment  here  at  home.  I  call  up  from  among  the 
shadows  that  the  flickering  firelight  casts  upon  the  wall,  the 
tall,  knightly  figure  of  Duff,  the  brisk,  busy,  scolding  Mrs. 
Barnes,  the  sedate  and  judicious  Dickson,  the  grotesque 
Finn,  the  stately  and  elegant  Mrs.  Powell,  looking  like  the 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES.  817 

personification  of  tragedy,  and  bluff  old  Kilner,  fat  and 
pleasant  to  the  sight,  and  with  that  hearty  laugh  that  made 
all  who  heard  it  love  him. 

What  is  the  excitement  occasioned  by  the  EUsler  or  Miss 
Lind  compared  to  that  which  attended  the  advent  of  the 
elder  Kean  ?  What  crowds  used  to  beset  the  box  office  in 
the  ten-footer  next  to  the  theatre,  from  the  earliest  dawn 
until  the  opening !  I  often  think,  when  I  meet  some  of 
our  gravest  and  grayest  citizens  m  their  daily  walks,  what  a 
figure  they  cut  now  compared  with  the  days  when  they 
were  fighting  their  way  into  the  box  office  of  the  old  the- 
atre !  Talk  of  enthusiasm !  What  are  all  our  political 
campaigns  and  public  commemorations  compared  with  that 
evening  during  the  last  war  with  Great  Britain,  when  Com- 
modore Bainbridge  came  into  Boston  Bay  after  his  victory 
over  the  Java  !  That  admirable  actor,  the  late  Mr.  Cooper, 
was  playing  Macbeth,  and  interrupted  his  performance  to 
announce  the  victory. 

But,  pardon  me,  I  did  not  sit  down  here  to  lose  myself  in 
the  reminiscences  of  half  a  century  ago.  Let  me  try  to 
govern  this  truant  pen,  and  keep  it  more  closely  to  my 
chosen  theme.  Do  you  remember,  beloved  reader,  your 
second  visit  to  the  theatre  ?  If  you  do,  cherish  it ;  let  it 
not  depart  from  you,  for  in  the  days  that  are  in  store  for 
you,  when  age  and  infirmity  shall  stand  guard  over  you,  and 
you  are  obliged  to  find  all  your  pleasures  by  your  fireside, 
the  memory  of  your  second  play  will  be  very  precious  to 
you.  You  will  find,  on  looking  back  to  it  through  a  vista 
of  sixty  years  or  more,  that  all  the  pleasure  you  then  en- 
joyed was  placed  on  the  credit  side  of  your  account,  and 
has  been  increasing  by  a  sort  of  moral  compound  interest 
during  the  long  years  that  you  have  devoted  to  delights  less 
innocent,  perhaps,  and  certainly  less  satisfactory,  or  to  the 
pursuit  of  objects  far  more  fleeting  and  unreal  than  those 
27* 


318  AGUECHEEK. 

which  then  fascinated  your  youthful  mind.  I  say  your 
"  second  play,"  for  the  first  dramatic  performance  that  the 
child  witnesses  is  too  astonishing  to  afford  him  its  full  meas- 
ure of  gratification.  It  is  only  after  he  has  told  his  play- 
mates all  about  it,  and  imitated  the  wonderful  hero  who 
rescued  the  beautiful  lady  in  white  satin,  and  dreamed  of 
the  splendour  of  the  last  great  scene,  when  all  the  persons 
of  the  drama  stood  in  a  semicircle,  and  the  king,  with  a 
crown  of  solid  gold  upon  his  head,  addressed  to  the  mag- 
nanimous hero  the  thrilling  words,  — 

"It  is  enough:  the  princess  is  thine  own!"  — 

and  all  the  characters  struck  impressive  attitudes,  and  the 
curtain  descended  upon  a  tableau  lighted  up  by  coloured 
fires  of  ineffable  brilliancy,  —  it  is  only  after  all  these  things 
have  sunk  deep  into  the  young  mind,  and  he  has  resolved 
to  write  a  play  himself,  and  never  to  rest  satisfied  until  he 
can  bring  down  the  house  with  the  best  of  the  actors  he  has 
seen,  that  he  fully  appreciates  the  entertainment  which  has 
been  vouchsafed  to  him. 

What  a  charm  invests  the  place  where  we  made  our  first 
acquaintance  with  the  drama !  It  becomes  an  enchanted 
spot  for  us,  and  I  doubt  if  the  greatest  possible  familiarity 
in  after  life  can  ever  breed  contempt  for  it  in  our  hearts. 
For  my  own  part,  I  regarded  the  destruction  of  the  old 
theatre  in  Federal  Street,  and  the  erection  of  warehouses 
on  its  hallowed  site,  as  a  positive  sacrilege.  And  I  cannot 
pass  that  spot,  even  at  this  late  day,  without  mentally  re- 
curring to  the  joys  I  once  tasted  there.  Perhaps  Some 
who  read  this  may  cherish  similar  sentiments  about  the 
old  Tremont  Theatre,  a  place  for  Avhicli  I  had  as  great  a 
fondness  as  one  can  have  for  a  theatre  in  which  he  did  not 
see  his  first  play.  The  very  mention  of  it  calls  up  its 
beautiful  interior  in  my  mind's  eye,  —  its  graceful  prosce- 


BEHIND   THE  SCENES.  319 

nium,  its  chandeliers  around  the  front  of  the  boxes,  its  com- 
fortable pit,  where  I  enjoyed  so  much  good  acting,  and  all 
the  host  of  worthies  who  graced  that  spacious  stage.  Mr. 
Gilbert  was  not  so  fat  in  those  days  as  he  is  now,  nor  Mr. 
Barry  so  gray.  What  a  picturesque  hero  was  old  Brough 
in  the  time  when  the  Woods  were  in  their  golden  prime, 
and  the  appearance  of  the  Count  Rodolpho  on  the  distant 
bridge  was  the  signal  for  a  tempest  of  applause !  Who 
can  forget  how  Mr.  Ostinelli's  bald  head  used  to  shine,  as 
he  presided  over  that  excellent  orchestra,  or  how  funny  old 
Gear's  serious  face  looked,  as  he  peered  at  the  house 
through  those  heavy,  silver-bowed  spectacles  ?  Perhaps 
for  some  of  my  younger  readers  the  stage  of  the  Museum 
possesses  similar  charms,  and  they  will  find  themselves, 
years  hence,  looking  back  to  the  happy  times  when  Mr. 
Angier  received  their  glittering  quarters,  and  they  hastened 
up  stairs,  to  forget  the  wanderings  of  -^neas  and  the  per- 
plexities of  arithmetic  in  the  inimitable  fun  of  that  prince- 
regent  among  comedians,  Mr.  William  Warren. 

But  wherever  we  may  have  commenced  our  dramatic 
experience,  and  whatever  that  experience  may  have  been, 
we  have  all,  I  am  sure,  felt  the  influence  of  that  mysterious 
charm  which  hangs  over  the  stage.  We  have  all  felt  that 
keen  curiosity  to  penetrate  to  the  source  of  so  much  enjoy- 
ment. Who  has  not  had  a  desire  to  enter  that  mysterious 
door  which  conducts  the  "sOns  of  harmony"  from  the 
orchestra  to  the  unknown  depths  below  the  stage  ?  It  looks 
dark  and  forbidding,  but  we  feel  instinctively  that  it  is  not 
80,  when  we  see  our  venerated  uncle  Tom  Comer  carrying 
his  honest  and  sunshiny  face  through  it  so  often.  That 
green  curtain,  which  is  the  only  veil  between  us  and  a 
world  of  heroes  and  demigods,  —  how  enviously  do  we  look 
at  its  dusty  folds  !  With  what  curiosity  do  we  inspect  the 
shoes  of  varied  make  and  colour  that  figure  in  the  little 


320  AGUECHEEK. 

space  between  it  and  the  stage  !  How  do  we  long  to  follow 
the  hero  who  has  strutted  his  hour  upon  the  stage  into  the 
invisible  recesses  of  P.  S.  and  O.  P.,  and  to  know  what 
takes  the  place  of  the  full  audience  and  the  glittering  row 
of  footlights  in  his  eyes  when  he  makes  his  exit  at  the 
"  upper  entrance,  left,"  or  through  the  "  door  in  flat "  which 
always  moves  so  noiselessly  on  its  hinges !  I  think  that 
the  performance  of  the  "  Forty  Thieves "  awakened  this 
curiosity  in  my  mind  more  than  almost  any  other  play.  I 
longed  to  inspect  more  closely  those  noble  steeds  that  came 
with  such  a  jerky  gait  over  the  distant  mountains,  and  to 
know  what  produced  the  fearful  noise  that  attended  the 
opening  of  the  robbers'  cave.  I  believed  in  the  untold 
wealth  that  was  said  to  be  heaped  up  in  those  subterranean 
depths,  but  still  I  wished  to  look  at  the  "  cavern  goblet," 
and  see  how  it  compared  with  those  that  adorned  the  cases 
of  my  excellent  friends,  Messrs.  Davis  and  Brown.  I  can 
never  forget  the  thrill  that  shot  through  me  when  Morgiana 
lifted  the  cover  of  the  oil  jar,  and  the  terrible  question,  "  Is 
it  time  ?  "  issued  from  it,  nor  my  admiration  for  the  fear- 
lessness of  that  self-possessed  maiden  when  she  answered 
with  those  eloquent  and  memorable  words,  "  Not  yet,  but 
presently."  I  believed  that  the  compound  which  Morgiana 
administered  so  freely  to  the  concealed  banditti  was  just  as 
certain  death  to  every  mother's  son  of  them  as  M.  Fousel's 
Pabulum  Vitee  is  renewed  life  to  the  consumptives  of  the 
present  day ;  and,  years  after  I  had  supposed  my  recollec- 
tions of  the  "  Forty  Thieves  "  to  have  become  very  misty 
and  shapeless,  I  found  myself  startled  in  an  oriental  city  by 
coming  upon  several  oil  jars  of  the  orthodox  model,  and  I 
astonished  the  malignant  and  turbaned  Turk  who  owned 
them,  and  amused  the  companion  of  my  walks  about 
Smyrna,  by  lifting  the  lid  of  one  of  them,  and  quoting  the 
words   of   Morgiana.      My  superstitions   concerning   that 


BEHIND   THE   SCENES.  321 

pleasant  old  melodrama  of  course  passed  away  when  I 
became  familiar  with  the  theatre  by  daylight,  and  was 
accustomed  to  exchange  the  compliments  of  the  morning 
with  the  estimable  gentleman  who  played  Hassarac ;  but 
the  illusion  of  its  first  performance  has  never  been  entirely 
blotted  from  my  mind. 

Some  years  ago  it  was  my  privilege  to  visit  a  place  which 
is  classical  to  every  lover  of  the  drama  and  its  literature. 
Drury  Lane  Theatre,  now  that  its  ancient  rival,  Covent 
Garden,  has  passed  aM'ay,  and  been  replaced  by  a  house 
exclusively  devoted  to  the  lyric  muse,  is  the  only  theatre 
of  London  which  is  associated  in  every  mind  with  that  host 
of  geniuses  who  have  illustrated  dramatic  art  from  the 
times  of  Garrick  to  our  own.  That  gifted  and  versatile 
actor,  Mr.  Davenport,  who  stands  as  high  in  the  favour  of 
the  English  as  of  the  American  public,  conducted  me 
through  that  immense  establishment.  We  entered  the  door, 
which  I  had  often  looked  at  with  curiosity  as  I  passed 
through  the  long  colonnade  of  the  theatre,  encountering 
several  of  those  clean-shaven  personages  in  clothes  that 
would  be  much  refreshed  if  they  were  allowed  to  take  a 
nap,  and,  after  traversing  two  or  three  dark  corridors,  found 
ourselves  upon  the  stage.  The  scene  of  so  many  triumphs 
as  have  there  been  achieved  is  not  without  its  attractions, 
even  though  it  may  look  differently  en  deshabille  from  what 
it  does  in  the  glitter  of  gaslight.  The  stage  which  has  been 
trod  by  the  Kembles,  the  Keans,  Siddons,  Macready,  Young, 
Palmer  Dowton,  Elliston,  Munden,  Liston,  and  Farren,  is 
by  no  means  an  ordinary  combination  of  planks.  We 
know,  for  Campbell  has  told  us,  that 

" by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come ; 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 
And  sculptiue  to  be  dumb." 


322  AGUECHEEK. 

Yet  what  a  shadowy,  intangible  thing  the  reputation  of  a 
great  actor  would  seem  to  be !  We  simply  know  of  him 
that  in  certain  characters  his  genius  held  the  crowded  thea- 
tre in  willing  thraldom,  and  made  the  hearts  of  hundreds 
of  spectators  throb  like  that  of  one  man.  Those  who  felt 
his  wondrous  power  have  passed  away  like  himself;  and 
all  that  remains  of  him  who  once  filled  so  large  a  space  in 
the  public  eye  is  an  ill-written  biography  or  a  few  hastily 
penned  sentences  in  an  encyclopaedia. 

I  was  too  full  of  wonder  at  the  extent  of  that  vast  stage, 
however,  to  think  much  of  its  ancient  associations.  Those 
lumbering  stacks  of  scenery  that  filled  a  large  building  at 
the  rear  of  the  stage,  and  ran  over  into  every  available 
corner,  told  the  story  of  the  scenic  efforts  of  Old  Drury 
during  nearly  half  a  century.  How  many  dramas,  pro- 
duced "  without  the  slightest  regard  to  expense,"  and  "  on  a 
scale  of  unparalleled  splendour,"  must  have  contributed  to 
the  building  up  of  those  mighty  piles  !  The  labyrinthine 
passages,  the  rough  brick  walls,  darkened  by  time  and  the 
un-Penelope-like  spiders  of  Drury  Lane,  were  in  striking 
contrast  to  the  stage  of  that  theatre  as  it  appears  from  the 
auditorium.  The  green-room  had  been  placed  in  mourning 
for  the  "  goodlie  companie  "  that  once  filled  it,  by  the  all- 
pervading,  omnipresent  smoke  of  London.  Up  stairs  the 
sight  was  still  more  wonderful.  The  space  above  the  stage 
was  crowded  full  of  draperies,  and  borders,  and  dusty  ropes, 
and  wheels,  and  pulleys.  D.  enjoyed  my  amazement,  and 
led  me  through  a  darksome,  foot-wide  passage  above  the 
stage,  through  that  wilderness  of  cordage  to  the  machinists* 
gallery.  Take  all  the  rope-walks  that  you  have  ever  visited, 
dear  reader,  and  add  to  them  the  running  gear  of  several 
first-class  ships,  and  you  may  obtain  something  of  an  idea 
of  the  sight  that  then  met  my  view.  I  have  often  heard 
an  impatient  audience  hiss  at  some  trifling  delay  in  the 


BEHIND   THE   SCENES.  323 

shifting  of  a  scene.  If  they  could  see  the  complicated  ma- 
chinery which  must  be  set  in  motion  to  produce  the  effects 
they  desire,  their  impatience  would  be  changed  to  wonder 
at  the  skill  and  care  which  are  so  constantly  exerted  and 
make  so  few  mistakes.  A  glance  into  two  or  three  of  the 
dressing-rooms,  and  a  hasty  visit  to  the  dark  maze  of  ma- 
chinery beneath  the  stage  for  working  the  trap-doors,  com- 
pleted my  survey  of  Old  Drury,  and  I  left  its  ancient  walls 
with  an  increased  respect  for  them,  and  a  feeling  of  self- 
gratulation  that  I  was  neither  an  actor  nor  a  manager. 

Not  long  after  the  above  visit,  I  availed  myself  of  an 
opportunity  to  make  a  similar  inspection  of  the  Theatre 
Frangais,  in  the  Palais  Royal  at  Paris.  The  old  estab- 
lishment is  not  so  extensive  as  tha'  of  Drury  Lane,  but  its 
main  features  are  the  same.  There  was  an  air  of  govern- 
ment patronage  about  it  which  was  apparent  in  its  every 
department.  The  stage  entrance  was  through  a  long  and 
well-lighted  corridor  that  might  have  led  to  a  banking- 
house.  Its  green-room  was  a  luxurious  saloon,  with  a  floor 
of  tessellated  walnut  and  oak,  waxed  and  polished  so  highly 
that  you  could  see  your  figure  in  it,  and  could  with  difficulty 
avoid  becoming  a  lay  figure  upon  it.  Its  frescoed  ceiling  and 
gilded  cornices,  its  immense  mirrors,  and  its  walls  covered 
with  the  portraits  of  several  generations  of  players,  whose 
genius  has  made  the  very  name  of  that  theatre  venerable 
throughout  the  civilized  world,  were  very  different  from 
most  of  the  green-rooms  that  I  had  seen.  In  the  ancient 
Colleges  in  Italy  the  walls  of  the  class-rooms  are  hung  with 
portraits  of  the  distinguished  scholars,  illustrious  prelates, 
and  sometimes  of  the  canonized  saints,  who  once  studied 
under  their  time-honoured  roofs.  In  the  same  spirit,  the 
green-room  of  the  Theatre  Frangais  is  adorned  with  busts 
and  pictures ;  and  the  chairs  that  once  were  occupied  by  a 
Talma,  a  Mars,  and  a  Rachel  are  held  in  honour  in  the 


324  AGUECHEEK. 

place  where  their  genius  received  its  full  development.  The 
dressing-rooms  of  the  brilliant  company  which  sustains  the 
high  reputation  of  that  house  are  in  perfect  keeping  with 
its  green-room.  Each  of  the  leading  actors  and  actresses 
has  a  double  room,  furnished  in  a  style  of  comfortable  ele- 
gance. In  the  wardrobe  and  property  rooms,  the  imperial 
patronage  is  visible  in  the  richness  of  the  stage  furniture 
and  the  profusion  of  dresses  made  of  the  costliest  silks  and 
velvets.  The  stage,  however,  is  very  much  like  that  of  any 
other  theatre.  There  were  the  same  obscure  passages,  the 
same  stupendous  collection  of  intricate  machinery,  and  the 
same  mysterious  odour,  as  of  gas  and  musty  scenery,  per- 
vaded the  whole.  I  was  permitted  to  view  all  its  arcana, 
from  the  wheels  that  revolve  in  dusty  silence  eighty  or 
ninety  feet  above  the  stage  to  the  ponderous  balance  weights 
that  dwell  in  the  darkness  of  the  second  and  third  stories 
below  it ;  and  enjoyed  it  so  keenly  that  I  regretted  to  be 
told  that  I  had  seen  all,  and  to  find  myself  once  more  in 
the  dazzling  sunshine  of  the  Rue  de  Richelieu. 

We  are  accustomed  to  speak  of  the  theatre  as  a  reposi- 
tory of  shams  and  unrealities,  and  to  contrast  it  with  the 
actualities  of  every-day  life.  I  hope  that  you  will  excuse 
me,  gentle  reader,  for  venturing  to  deny  the  justice  of  all 
such  figures  of  speech.  They  are  as  false  as  that  common 
use  of  the  expressions  "  sunrise  "  and  "  sunset,"  when  we 
know  that  the  sun  does  not  really  rise  or  set  at  all.  No,  it 
is  the  theatre  that  is  the  reality,  and  the  life  we  see  on 
every  side  the  sham.  The  theatre  is  all  that  it  pretends  to 
be  —  a  scenic  illusion  ;  and  if  we  compare  it  to  the  world 
around  us,  with  its  loving  couples,  my-dearing  each  other 
before  folks,  and  exchanging  angry  words  over  the  solitary 
tea-tray,  —  its  politicians,  seeking  nominations  and  votes,' 
and  then  reluctantly  giving  up  their  private  interests  and 
comforts  for  the  "  public  good,"  (as  the  spoils  of  office  are 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES.  325 

facetiously  termed,)  —  its  so-called  ministers  of  the  gospel, 
who  speak  of  an  offer  of  increased  salary  as  "  an  opportunity 
to  labour  in  a  wider  sphere  of  usefulness,"  —  and  its  funer- 
als, where  there  is  such  an  imposing  show  of  black  crape 
and  bombazine,  but  where  the  genuine  mourning  commences 
only  after  the  reading  of  the  will  of  the  deceased,  —  I  am 
sure  that  we  shall  be  justified  in  concluding  that  the  ficti- 
tious affair  which  we  try  to  dignify  with  the  title  of  "  real 
life  "  is  a  far  less  respectable  illusion  than  the  mimic  scene 
that  captivates  us  in  the  hours  of  relaxation. 
28 


-      THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  CANT. 

Be  not  dismayed,  kind  reader,  —  I  have  no  intention  of 
impressing  you  for  a  tiresome  cruise  in  the  high  and  dan- 
gerous latitudes  of  German  metaphysics  ;  nor  do  I  wish  to 
set  myself  up  as  a  critic  of  pure  reason.  In  spite  of  Noah 
Webster  and  his  inquisitorial  publishers,  I  still  cherish  a 
partiality  for  correct  orthography ;  and  I  would  not  be 
understood  as  referring  in  the  caption  of  this  article  to  the 
celebrated  founder  of  the  transcendental  school  of  philosophy. 
I  cannot  but  respect  Emmanuel  Kant  as  a  remarkable  in- 
tellectual man  ;  and  I  hope  to  be  pardoned  for  saying  that 
his  surname  might  properly  be  anglicized,  by  spelling  it 
with  a  C  instead  of  a  K.  Neither  did  I  allude  to  the  useful 
art  of  saying  "  No  "  opportunely,  which  an  excellent  friend 
of  mine  (whose  numerous  virtues  are  neutralized  by  his 
propensity  to  fabricate  puns  in  season  and  out  of  season) 
insists  upon  denominating  the  "  philosophy  of  can't."  That 
faculty  which  is,  in  more  senses  than  one,  a  negative  virtue, 
is  unhappily  a  much  harder  thing  to  find  than  the  vice  of 
which  I  have  a  few  words  to  say. 

I  do  not  mean  cant  in  the  worse  sense  of  the  word,  as 
exemplified  in  the  characters  of  Pecksniff",  Stiggins,  Chad- 
band,  and  Aminadab  Sleek,  nor  even  in  those  of  that  large 
school  of  worshippers  of  propriety  and  bond-servants  of 
popular  opinion,  who  reverse  the  crowning  glory  of  the 
character  of  Porcius  Cato,  and  prefer  to  seem,  rather  than 
to  be,  good.  The  cant  I  allude  to  is  the  technical  phrase- 
ology of  the  various  virtues,  which  some  people  appear  to 
tihink  is  the  same  thing   as  virtue  itself.    They  do  not 

(326) 


THE   PUILOSOPHY   OP   CANT.  827 

remember  that  a  greasy  bank-note  is  valueless  save  as  the 
representative  of  a  given  quantity  of  bullion,  and  that  pious 
and  virtuous  language  is  of  no  account  except  its  full  value 
be  found  in  the  pure  gold  of  virtue  stored  away  in  the 
treasure-chambers  of  the  heart.  For  such  cant  as  this  I 
have  less  respect  than  for  downright  hypocrisy  ;  for  there  is 
something  positive  about  the  character  of  your  genuine 
villain,  which  certainly  does  not  repel  me  so  strongly  as  the 
milk-and-watery  characteristics  of  that  numerous  class  of 
every-day  people  who  (not  being  good  enough  to  serve  as 
examples,  nor  bad  enough  to  be  held  up  as  warnings)  are 
of  no  use  whatever  in  their  day  and  generation.  What 
possible  solace  can  he  who  deals  in  the  set  phrases  of  con- 
solation administer  to  the  afflicted  spirit  in  that  hour,  when 
(even  among  the  closest  friends)  "  speech  is  silver,  but 
silence  is  golden  "  ? 

There  is  scarcely  a  subject  upon  which  men  converse,  in 
which  this  species  of  cant'  does  not  play  its  part ;  but  there 
are  some  matters  in  which  it  makes  itself  so  conspicuous 
that  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  pay  particular  atten- 
tion to  them.  And,  as  the  subject  is  rather  an  extensive 
one,  I  will  parley  no  longer  in  its  vestibule,  but  pull  off  my 
overcoat,  and  make  myself  at  home  in  its  front  parlour.  I 
wish  to  make  a  few  observations  on  cant  as  it  manifests 
itself  in  regard  to  morality,  philanthropy,  religion,  liberty, 
and  progress.  My  notions  will  excite  the  sneers  of  some 
of  my  younger  readers,  I  doubt  not,  and  perchance  of  some 
older  ones  ;  but,  while  I  claim  the  privilege  of  age  in  speak- 
ing (Jut  my  mind,  I  shall  try  to  avoid  the  testiness  which 
senility  too  often  manifests  towards  those  who  do  not  respect 
its  opinions.  Convinced  that  mine  are  true,  I  can  affoi^d  to 
emulate  "  Messire  de  Mauprat "  in  his  patience,  and  wait  to 
see  my  fellow-men  pass  their  fortieth  birthday,  and,  leaving 
their  folly  and  enthusiasm  behind  them,  come  round  to  my 
position. 


S26  AGUECHEEK. 

The  cant  of  Morality  is  so  common  that  it  is  mistaken  by 
many  excellent  people  for  morality  itself.  To  leave  unno- 
ticed the  people  who  consider  it  very  iniquitous  to  go  to 
the  theatre,  but  perfectly  allowable  to  laugh  at  Mr.  Warren 
on  the  stage  of  the  Museum  ;  who  enjoy  backgammon,  but 
shrink  from  whist  with  holy  horror ;  and  who  hold  up  their 
hands  and  cry  out  against  the  innocent  Sunday  recreations 
of  continental  Europe,  yet  think  themselves  justified  in  read- 
ing their  Sunday  newspapers  and  the  popular  magazines, 
or  talking  of  the  style  of  the  new  bonnets  which  made 
their  first  appearance  at  the  morning  service, —  to  say  nothing 
about  the  moralists  of  this  school,  I  am  afraid  that  the  pre- 
vailing notions  on  matters  of  greater  import  than  mere 
amusement  are  not  such  as  would  stand  a  very  severe  moral 
test.  When  I  see  so  much  circumspection  with  regard  to 
external  propriety,  joined  with  such  an  evident  want  of 
principle,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  Ten  Commandments  of 
the  Old  Law  had  been  superseded  by  an  eleventh :  Thou 
shalt  not  be  found  ottt.  When  I  see  people  of  education  in 
a  city  like  Boston,  dignifying  lust  under  the  title  of  a 
spiritual  affinity,  and  characterizing  divorce  as  obedience  to 
the  highest  natural  law,  —  and  still  more,  when  I  see  how 
little  surprise  the  enunciation  of  such  doctrines  occasions,  —  I 
no  longer  wonder  at  infidelity,  for  I  am  myself  tempted  to 
ask  whether  there  is  any  such  thing  as  abstract  right  or 
abstract  wrong,  and  to  question  whether  morality  may  not 
'  be  an  ant'quated  institution,  which  humanity  is  now  suffi- 
ciently advanced  to  dispense  with.  It  is  a  blessed  thing 
that  we  have  not  the  power  to  read  one  another's  hearts. 
To  pass  by  the  unhappiness  it  would  cause  us,  what  changes 
it  would  occasion  in  our  moral  classifications  !  How  many 
men,  clad  in  picturesque  and  variegated  costumes,  are 
labouring  in  the  public  work- hops  of  Charlestown,  or  Sing 
Sing,  or  Pentonville,  who,  if  the  heart  were  seen,  would  be 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   CANT.  329 

found  worthier  by  far  than  some  of  those  ornaments  of  so- 
ciety who  are  always  at  the  head  of  their  pews,  and  whose 
names  are  found  alike  on  false  invoices  and  subscription 
lists  for  evangelizing  some  undiscovered  continent !  What 
a  different  balance  would  be  struck  between  so-called  re- 
spectability in  its  costly  silks  and  its  comparative  immu- 
nity from  actual  temptation,  and  needy  wantonness  display- 
ing its  rouge  and  Attleborough  jewelry  all  the  more  boldly 
because  it  feels  that  the  ban  of  society  is  upon  it ! 

And  this  brings  me  to  the  cant  of  Philanthropy.  That 
excellent  word  has  been  so  shamefully  abused  of  late  years, 
by  being  applied  to  the  empirical  schemes  of  adventurers 
and  social  disorganizers,  that  you  cannot  now  say  a  much 
worse  thing  of  a  man  than  that  he  is  a  "  philanthropist." 
That  term  ought  to  designate  one  of  the  noblest  representa- 
tives of  the  unselfish  side  of  human  nature  ;  but  to  my  mind, 
it  describes  a  sallow,  long-haired,  whining  fellow,  who  has 
taken  up  with  the  profession  of  loving  all  men  in  general, 
that  he  may  better  enjoy  the  satisfaction  of  hating  all  men 
in  particular,  and  may  the  more  eifectually  prey  upon  his 
immediate  neighbours  ;  a  monomaniac,  yet  with  sufficient 
"  method  in  his  madness  "  to  make  it  pay  a  handsome  profit ; 
a  knave  whose  telescopic  vision  magnifies  the  spiritual  desti- 
tution of  Tching-tou,  and  can  see  nothing  wanting  to  com- 
plete our  Christian  civilization  but  a  willingness  to  contribute 
to  the  "  great  and  good  work,"  and  whose  commissions  for 
disbursing  the  funds  are  frightfully  disproportionate  to  the 
amount  collected  and  the  work  done.  But  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  the  cant  of  philanthropy  passing  current  even  among 
those  who  have  no  respect  for  the  professional  philanthro- 
pist. With  all  possible  regard  for  the  spirit  of  the  age,  I 
do  not  believe  that  modern  philanthropy  can  ever  be  made 
to  take  the  place  of  old-fashioned  Christian^  charity.  Far 
be  it  from  me  to  underrate  the  benevolent  eflforts  which  are 
28* 


330  AGUECHEEK. 

made  in  this  community;  but  I  cannot  help  seeing  that 
while  thousands  are  spent  in  alms,  we  lack  that  blessed 
spirit  of  charity  which  imparted  such  a  charm  to  the  benev- 
olent institutions  of  the  middle  ages.  They  seemed  to 
labour  among  the  poor  on  the  pi^inciple  which  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  laid  down  for  his  charities  —  "I  give  no  alms  to 
satisfy  the  hunger  of  my  brother,  but  to  fulfil  and  accom- 
plish the  will  and  command  of  my  God;  I  draw  not  my 
purse  for  his  sake  that  demands  it,  but  His  that  enjoined  it." 
We  irreverent  moderns  have  tried  to  improve  upon  this, 
and  the  result  is  seen  in  legal  enactments  against  mendi- 
cancy, in  palatial  prisons  for  criminals,  and  in  poorhouses 
where  the  needy  are  obliged  to  associate  with  the  vicious 
and  depraved.  The  "  dark  ages  "  (as  the  times  which  wit- 
nessed the  foundation  of  the  greatest  universities,  hospitals, 
and  asylums  the  world  ever  saw,  are  sometimes  called)  were 
not  dark  enough  for  that. 

Do  what  we  may  to  remedy  this  defect  in  our  solicitude 
for  the  suffering  classes,  the  legal  view  of  the  matter  will 
still  predominate.  We  may  imitate  the  kindliness  of  the 
ancient  times,  but  we  cannot  disguise  the  fact  that  pauper- 
ism is  regarded  not  only  as  a  great  social  evil,  but  as  an 
offence  against  our  laws.  While  this  is  so,  we  shall  labour 
in  vain  to  catch  the  tone  of  the  days  when  poverty  was  en- 
nobled by  the  virtues  of  the  apostolic  Francis  of  Assisi  and 
the  heroic  souls  that  relinquished  wealth  and  power  to  share 
his  humble  lot.  The  voice  of  our  philanthropy  may  be  the 
voice  of  Jacob,  but  the  hand  will  be  the  hand  of  Esau. 
That  true  gentleman  and  kind-hearted  knight  whom  I  have 
already  quoted,  had  no  patience  with  this  contempt  for  pov- 
erty which  was  just  growing  into  sight  in  his  time,  but  is 
now  so  common ;  and  he  administered  to  it  a  rebuke  which 
has  lost  none  'of  its  force  by  the  lapse  of  more  than  two 
hundred  years :  "  Statists  that  labour  to  contrive  a  common- 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   CANT.  831 

wealth  without  poverty,  take  away  the  object  of  charity,  not 
understanding  only  the  commonwealth  of  a  Christian,  but 
forgetting  the  prophecy  of  Christ." 

In  making  any  allusion  to  religious  cant,  I  am  sensible 
that  I  tread  on  very  dangerous  ground.  Still,  in  an  essay 
on  such  a  subject  as  the  present,  revivalism  ought  not  to  go 
unnoticed.  God  forbid  that  a  man  at  my  time  of  life  should 
pen  a  light  word  against  any  thing  that  may  draw  men  from 
their  worldliness  to  a  more  intimate  union  with  their  Cre- 
ator. But  the  revival  extravagances  which  last  year  made 
the  profane  laugh  and  the  devout  grieve,  merit  the  depre- 
cation of  every  person  who  does  not  wish  to  see  religion 
itself  brought  into  contempt.  I  do  not  believe  in  the  appli- 
cation of  the  high-pressure  system  to  the  spiritual  life. 
Some  persons  seem  to  regard  a  religious  excitement  as  an 
evidence  of  a  healthy  spiritual  state.  As  well  might  they 
consider  a  fever  induced  by  previous  irregularity  to  be  a 
proof  of  returning  bodily  health.  As  the  physician  of  the 
body  would  endeavour  to  restore  the  patient  to  his  normal 
state,  so  too  the  true  physician  of  the  soul  would  labour  to 
banish  the  religious  fever  from  the  mind  of  his  patient,  and 
to  plant  therein  the  sure  principles  of  spiritual  health  —  a 
clearly-defined  dogmatic  belief,  and  a  deep  conviction  of  the 
sinfulness  of  sin.  We  all  need  to  be  from  time  to  time  re- 
minded that  true  religion  is  not  a  mere  effervescence,  not  a 
vain  blaze,  but  a  reality  which  reflects  something  of  the 
unchangeable  glory  of  its  divine  Author.  It  is  not  a  vol- 
cano, treasuring  within  its  bosom  a  fierce,  destructive  ele- 
ment, sullenly  smouldering  and  smoking  for  years,  and 
making  intermittent  exhibitions  of  a  power  as  terrible  as  it 
is  sublime.  No ;  it  is  rather  a  majestic  and  (icep-flowing 
river,  taking  its  rise  amid  lofty  mountains  whose  snowy 
crags  and  peaks  are  pure  from  the  defilement  of  our  lower 
world,  fed  from  heaven,  bearing  in  its  broad  current  beauty, 


332  AGUECUEEK. 

and  fertility,  and  refreshment,  to  regions  which  would  else 
be  sterile  and  joyless,  and  emptying  at  last  into  a  shoreless 
and  untroubled  seii,  whose  bright  surface  mirrors  eternally 
the  splendour  of  the  skies. 

That  the  cant  of  Liberty  should  be  popular  with  the 
American  tongue  is  not,  perhaps,  to  be  wondered  at.  A 
young  nation,  —  which  has  achieved  its  own  independence 
in  a  contest  with  one  of  the  most  powerful  governments  in 
the  world,  —  which  has  grown  in  territory,  population,  and 
wealth  beyond  all  historical  precedent,  —  and  which  has  a 
new  country  for  its  field  of  action,  so  that  its  progress  is 
unimpeded  by  the  relics  of  ancient  civilization  or  the  ruins 
of  dead  empires,  —  could  not  reasonably  be  expected  to 
resist  all  temptations  to  self-glorification.  The  American 
eagle  is  no  mere  barnyard  fowl  —  content  with  a  secure 
roost  and  what  may  be  picked  up  within  sight  of  the  same. 
He  is  the  most  insatiable  of  birds.  His  fierce  eye  and 
bending  beak  look  covetous,  and  his  whole  aspect  is  one  of 
angry  anxiety  lest  his  prey  should  be  snatched  from  him,  or 
his  dominion  should  be  called  in  question.  In  this  regard 
he  differs  greatly  from  his  French  relative,  who  squats  with 
such  a  conscious  air  of  superiority  on  the  tops  of  the  regi- 
mental standard-poles  of  the  imperial  army,  and  surveys 
the  forest  of  bayonets  in  which  he  makes  his  nest  as  if  he 
felt  that  his  power  was  undisputed.  And  we  Americans 
are  not  less  uneasy  and  wild  than  the  bird  we  have  chosen 
for  our  national  emblem,  and  appear  to  think  that  the  essen- 
tial part  of  liberty  consists  in  keeping  up  an  endless  talk 
about  it.  Our  cant  of  freedom  needs  to  be  reminded  of 
Tom  Hood's  observation  concerning  religious  cant :  — 

"  'Tis  not  so  plain  as  the  old  hill  of  Howth, 
A  man  has  got  his  bellyfi^^  of  meat, 
Because  he  talks  with  victuals  in  his  mouth  !  " 

With  all  our  howling  about  liberty,  we  Americans  are 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF   CANT.  338 

abject  slaves  to  a  theory  of  government  which  we  feel 
bound  to  defend  under  all  circumstances,  and  to  propagate 
even  in  countries  which  are  entirely  unfitted  for  it.  This 
constitutional  theory  is  a  fine  thing  to  talk  about ;  few  topics 
affoi-d  so  wide  a  range  to  the  imaginative  powers  of  a  young 
orator.  It  is  not  therefore  to  be  wondered  at,  that  the  sub- 
ject should  be  so  often  forced  upon  us,  and  that  so  many 
startling  contrasts  should  be  drawn  between  our  govern- 
mental experiment  and  the  thousand-years-old  monarchies 
of  Europe.  These  comparisons  (which  some  people  who 
make  republicanism  such  an  article  of  faith,  that  they  must 
find  it  hard  to  repeat  the  clause  of  the  Lord's  prayer,  "  Thy 
kingdom  come,"  —  are  so  fond  of  drawing)  remind  me  of 
the  question  that  was  discussed  in  the  Milesian  debating 
society  — "  Which  was  the  greatest  man,  St.  Patrick  or  the 
Fourth  of  July  ? "  and  the  conclusions  drawn  from  them 
are  very  like  the  result  of  that  momentous  debate,  which 
was  decided  in  the  affirmative. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  got  past  the  age  when  eloquence 
and  poetry  are  of  much  account  in  matters  of  such  vital 
importance  as  government.  When  I  buy  a  pair  of  over- 
shoes, my  first  object  is  to  get  something  that  is  water-proof. 
So,  too,  in  the  matter  of  government,  I  only  wish  to  know 
whether  the  purposes  for  which  government  is  instituted  — 
the  protection  of  the  life,  property,  and  personal  liberty  of 
its  subjects  —  are  answered ;  and,  if  they  are,  I  am  ready 
to  swear  allegiance  to  it,  not  caring  a  splinter  of  a  ballot- 
box  whether  it  be  founded  on  hereditary  succession  or  a 
roll  of  parchment,  or  whether  its  executive  authority  be 
vested  in  a  president,  a  king,  or  an  emperor.  That  is  the 
best  government  which  is  best  administered ;  it  makes  little 
difference  what  you  call  it,  or  on  what  theory  it  is  built.  I 
love  my  country  dearly,  and  yield  to  no  one  in  my  loyalty 
to  her  government  and  laws ;  but  (pardon  me  for  being  so 


334  AGUECHEEK. 

matter-of-fact,  and  seemingly  unpatriotic)  I  would  willingly 
part  with  some  of  this  boasted  liberty  of  ours,  to  secure  a 
little  more  wisdom  in  making  laws,  and  a  good  deal  more 
strength  in  executing  them.  I  count  the  privilege  of  talk- 
ing politics  and  of  choosing  between  the  various  political 
adventurers  who  aspire  to  be  my  rulers,  as  a  very  insig- 
nificant affair  compared  with  a  sense  of  security  against 
popular  violence  and  the  dishonesty  of  dealers  in  the  neces- 
saries of  life.  And  I  cannot  help  thinking,  that  for  the 
inhabitants  of  a  country  where  there  is  little  reverence  for 
authority  or  willing  obedience  to  law,  where  the  better  class 
of  the  citizens  refuse  to  take  any  part  in  politics,  and  where 
the  legislative  power  is  enthroned,  not  in  the  Senate,  nor  in 
the  House  of  Representatives,  but  in  the  Lobby,  —  for  the 
inhabitants  of  such  a  country  to  boast  of  their  liberty  aloud, 
is  the  most  absurd  of  all  the  cants  in  this  canting  world. 

Little  as  I  respect  the  cant  of  liberty,  I  care  even  less  for 
the  cant  of  Progress.  I  never  had  much  patience  with  this 
worship  of  the  natui'al  sciences,  which  is  rapidly  getting  to 
be  almost  the  only  religion  among  certain  cultivated  people 
in  this  quarter.  I  remember  in  my  boyhood  startling  by  my 
scientific  apathy  a  j)recocious  companion  who  used  to  bother 
his  brains  about  the  solar  system,  and  one  useless  ology 
and  another,  in  the  precious  hours  which  ought  to  have  been 
devoted  to  Robinson  Crusoe  and  the  Arabian  Nights'  Enter- 
tainments. He  had  been  labouring  hard  to  explain  to  me 
the  law  of  gravitation,  and  concluded  with  the  bold  state- 
ment that,  were  it  not  for  that  law,  an  apple,  with  which  he 
had  been  illustrating  his  theory,  instead  of  falling  to  the 
earth,  might  roll  off  the  unprotected  side  of  this  sublunary 
sphere  into  the  abyss  of  space,  —  or  something  to  that  effect. 
He  could  not  conceal  his  contempt  for  my  want  of  scientific 
ardour,  when  I  asked  him  whether  he  should  really  care  if 
it  did  roll  off,  so  long  as  there  was  a  plenty  left !    I  did 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   CANT.  8d5 

wrong  to  joke  him,  for  he  was  a  good  fellow,  in  spite  of  his 
weakness.  It  is  many  years  since  he  figured  himself  out 
of  this  unsatisfactory  world,  into  a  state  of  existence  where 
vision  is  clearer  even  than  mathematical  demonstration, 
and  where  x  does  not  "  equal  the  unknown  quantity." 

Pardon  this  digression :  in  complaining  of  the  vaunted 
progress  of  this  rapid  age,  I  am  making  little  progress  my- 
self. It  appears  to  me  that  the  people  who  laud  this  age  so 
highly  either  do  not  know  what  true  progress  is,  or  suffer 
themselves  to  mistake  the  means  for  the  end.  Your  cotton 
mills,  and  steam  engines,  and  clipper  ships,  and  electric  tel- 
egraphs, do  not  constitute  progress  ;  they  are  means  by  which 
it  may  be  attained.  If  gunpowder,  immediately  after  its  in- 
vention, had  been  devoted  to  the  indiscriminate  destruction 
of  mankind,  could  such  an  invention  have  justly  been  termed 
progress  ?  If  the  press  were  used  only  to  perpetuate  the 
blasphemies  and  indecencies  of  Mazzini  and  Eugene  Sue, 
who  would  esteem  Gutenberg  and  Fust  as  benefactors,  or 
promoters  of  true  progress  ?  And  if  the  increased  facilities 
for  travel,  and  the  other  inventions  on  which  this  age  prides 
itself,  pnly  tend  to  make  men's  minds  narrower  by  absorbing 
them  in  material  interests,  and  their  souls  more  mean  by 
giving  them  the  idol  of  prosperity  to  worship,  then  is  this 
nineteenth  century  a  century  of  progress  indeed,  but  in 
the  wrong  direction.  And  if  our  mode  of  education  only 
augments  the  ratio  of  crime  among  the  lower  class,  and 
makes'  superficial  pretenders  of  the  higher  orders  of  society, 
it  is  not  a  matter  which  will  justify  our  setting  ourselves 
quite  so  high  above  past  ages  and  the  rest  of  the  world. 

I  cannot  see  what  need  nor  what  excuse  there  is  for  all 
this  bragging.  A  great  many  strong  men  lived  before 
Agamemnon,  —  and  after  him.  We  indeed  do  some  things 
that  would  astonish  our  forefathers ;  but  how  are  we  supe- 
rior to  them  on  that  account  ?     We  enslave  the  lightnings 


836  AGUECHEEK. 

of  heaven  to  be  our  messengers,  and  compel  the  sun  to 
take  our  portraits  ;  but  if  our  electric  wires  are  prostituted 
to  the  chicanery  of  trade  or  politics,  and  the  faces  which 
the  sun  portrays  are  expressive  of  nothing  nobler  than 
mercantile  shrewdness  and  the  price  of  cotton,  the  less  we 
boast  of  our  achievements,  the  better.  Thucydides  never 
had  his  works  puffed  in  a  newspaper,  Virgil  and  Horace 
never  poetized  or  lectured  for  a  lyceum ;  Charlemagne 
never  saw  a  locomotive,  nor  did  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  ever 
use  a  friction  match.  Yet  this  unexampled  age  possesses, 
I  apprehend,  few  historians  who  would  not  shrink  from 
being  compared  with  the  famous  Greek  annalist,  few  poets 
worthy  to  wear  the  crowns  of  the  friends  of  the  great 
Augustus,  few  rulers  more  sagacious  and  firm  than  the  first 
Emperor  of  the  "West,  and  few  scholars  who  would  not  con- 
sider it  a  privilege  to  be  taught  by  the  Angelic  Doctor. 

True  progress  is  something  superior  to  your  pufiing  en- 
gines and  clicking  telegraphs,  and  independent  of  them. 
It  is  the  advancement  of  humanity  in  the  knowledge  of  ita 
frailty  and  dependence ;  the  elevation  of  the  mind  above 
its  own  limited  acquirements,  to  the  infinite  source  of 
knowledge ;  the  cleansing  of  the  heart  of  its  selfishness  and 
uncleanness ;  in  fact,  it  is  any  thing  whatever  that  tends  to 
assimilate  man  more  closely  to  the  divine  Exemplar  of 
perfect  manhood. 


THB  END. 


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UC  SOUTMBW  REOONAl.  LIBRARY  FAaiTf 

T''|['ififfrrii'iifn"in'"'T"r 


A    001  433 


21 


2    6 


